


Somebodies

by cameronclaire



Category: Disney - All Media Types, Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Action/Adventure, Backstory, Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Romance, Twenty-Somethings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 08:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 63,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14039946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cameronclaire/pseuds/cameronclaire
Summary: Before they were Nobodies, Axel and Saïx were inseparable—navigating a relationship their career ambitions prohibited and trying to make names for themselves in the world they ran wild in as kids. They almost succeeded.





	1. Visionaries

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think in the comments or come say hi on tumblr @complicatedandstained <3  
> You can subscribe to see when I update! Thank you for reading!

A light wind shifts Isa’s long, powder blue hair as he gazes up at the clock tower, the face of which beams proudly over Radiant Garden’s central plaza, and which--Isa frowns, taking in the unpleasantly increasing numbers, as spray from the fountain he sits on the ledge of dampens his wrists--Lea has never taken the time to read in his life.

Isa shuts the book he hasn’t had the peace of mind to read a sentence of yet this morning and takes another glance around the square. Glass storefronts mope, unlit, and cobblestone paths lay bare, waiting. Silence reigns. The late spring breeze ruffles the leaves of the overhanging willow trees. The overwhelming sweetness of the flowers curling through the wooden trellis wrapping the base of the fountain singe his nose. His empty stomach clenches, and his nerves buzz like static.

_Of all mornings._

Today at 7 sharp, assignments will be posted for employment in the castle.

 _It’s my own fault._ Isa sighs, the briefest of smiles warming his lips. _I should have been pelting his window with rocks at five a.m._

These positions are among the most honorable and coveted in the vast citadel and every recent graduate and unsatisfied apprentice would be clustered in the castle courtyard, itching for a glimpse of the lists nailed into the two massive wooden entry doors. Their instructors and peers expected Lea’s and Isa’s names would be among the proud few inked there, future apprentices to the king himself, Ansem the Wise.

_Lea had better be dying._

A passing Shadow scuttles along the edge of the square. Isa tends to attract them. Heartless. It rises up on its hind legs and pauses mid-creep to fix him with round, vacant, yellow eyes. Isa’s heart flutters in spite of himself. He’s seen them before, can handle a dozen of them with his claymore, and yet, there is something unsettling in their stare, a taste like dark chocolate, a feeling like forgetting, a pressing on Isa’s angular cheeks like the burn of snow.

Its antenna quiver as it tilts its head. Apparently uninterested, the Shadow sinks into its own likeness, cast black across the cobblestone and glides down the path toward the castle and the promise of a horde of hearts for the snatching. The guards will take care of it, but Isa longs to follow in its wake—to arrive at the gate, for once, on time.

“Is-a!” a voice sings from the opposite direction.

Soft pink cherry blossom petals scatter under Lea’s boots like puffs of snow as he sprints, skidding to a halt in front of Isa’s neatly crossed ankles.

Isa examines him. Lea hasn’t taken the time to fight his spikes of flaming red hair into a bun and the untucked bottom of his nicest button down bears the faintest of iron scorches.

“You waited for me!” Lea’s grin could blind, as if Isa’s waiting weren’t a near daily occurrence on their treks to Radiant Academy. “I’m so flattered.”

“Five more minutes and it would have been another story,” Isa stands to counter, but grins as well. Lea’s easygoing presence alone has its way of offsetting his annoyance.

Isa tries not to let this show. _Especially today, when Lea really should have made more of an effort._  “For gods’ sakes, where have you been?”

_Near twenty-five years old and the man still can't wake up on time._

“Do you have to ask?” Lea catches the criticism in his friend’s lingering stare.

 _I guess I_ could _have tried a bit harder,_ Lea frowns, _but no use in worrying about it now._

He slings his arm through Isa’s, and moves to kiss his cheek. Isa dodges, expression dour.

“Lea,” he rebukes.

 _Yikes_ , Lea thinks, grin slipping.

Isa pulls him along. Though impeccably dressed, Lea notes from the stiff material that Isa’s still sporting his uniform blazer, despite their recent graduation.

The pair were among the least well-to-do students to grace Radiant Academy’s hallowed halls. Nobodies, really, compared to the other kids. Lea’s own dress slacks had been won in one of his more hysterical bets, but he had foregone a jacket rather than wear his uniform another second.

They weren’t starved or desolate, but they didn’t own their own weapons either. And if their parents had spent more time working and arguing than parenting them, well, Lea figured, _life could be funny that way._

 _But if Isa receives the post he’s aiming for, he’ll be making more munny than he knows what to do with._ Lea knows better than to worry this will put a strain on their friendship, but sometimes he still does.

“Where to?” Lea jokes, starting toward a side alley, a shortcut, he would have explained, though Isa knew better than to ask him by now. Isa doubts they have ever taken the same route anywhere twice.

“Really, Lea, where were you?” Isa pulls his arm from Lea’s, though the pair remain in step. “If we’re late we won’t see the posts until midday.”

“Just getting my beauty rest.” Lea stretches his gangly arms overhead and yawns as if he wishes he still were, lowering them in time to duck under an electric wire wrapped with vines and dripping leafy branches. “Although I take it that’s not a concept _you’re_ overly familiar with.”

Isa’s eyes narrow, locking onto Lea’s, their unnatural green, like light filtered through an emerald, subdued to gray in the alley’s dim, dust-ridden morning light. But he can’t hold it, and as they step into the daylight of a second block of businesses--seedier, but more expedient than the main thoroughfare _—_ Isa laughs, startling a Moogle snoozing belly up atop her merchant cart.

The fuzzy, pale yellow creature begins to chatter at another Moogle who has begun loading her goods into a cart of his own. The second Moogle shrieks and launches the cart into the street, forcing Lea to unceremoniously yank Isa back by the collar to avoid a collision.

No one with any sense messes in the affairs of an angry Moogle, so they stand, breathing hard, Lea’s hand tightly clutching Isa’s collar, thumb to tag, unwelcomely warm on the back of his neck. Isa’s eyes, cyan blue and wide with shock, fix onto Lea’s, crinkled around the edges with suppressed laughter.

“You overslept,” Isa continues, plucking Lea’s hand from his blazer, “yet you still found time for winged eyeliner.” Lea’s laughter lines deepen, as Isa begins to tuck in his friend’s dress shirt. Satisfied, he gives the black tie around Lea’s throat a firm yank. “Unfathomable.”

For a moment Isa thinks he’s caught his friend without a comeback, but the moment passes.

Lea’s brows rise and he drawls seriously, “Do you need more time to check me out, Isa, or can we go? You’re going to make us late, ya know.”

Isa glances past Lea to see that both Moogle carts seem to have evaporated, and the narrow road stretches forward, unimpeded.

Fury pricks his temples and fades. “Why,” Isa asks, tone bone dry, “do you have somewhere you need to be?”

* * *

Lea turns down an alley of faded, crumbling stone, seemingly at random. Here the air is choked with the stench of cigarettes and the ivy climbing the walls gives the appearance of having smoked them, its leaves darkening from brown to black where the sun refuses to shine.

Isa grimaces, pale blue brows rising, as his eyes adjust to the shadows. “Dead end,” he observes, sounding vindicated. They had walked a half mile in the wrong direction and he had managed to keep his complaints to a minimum, but enough was enough.

Lea waves this off, running a hand through his poppy red, spiked hair, fixing his attention on a battered wooden door to their right. It’s been torn from its uppermost hinge and hangs precariously sideways from the bottom one. Yet someone has taken the time to jam the knob into a kind of alignment, so that the door can still functionally lock.

 _And in this part of town_ , Isa thinks, _I don’t blame them._ It takes him a second to place the sign hung overhead, emblazoned with a yellow spike of lightning, but once he does, he regrets it _—_ regrets following Lea blindly at all. _I should know better by now..._ “Isn’t this Elrena’s place?”

Exhaustingly haughty, disproportionately vain, and razor-tongued, Elrena had attended Radiant Academy with them. _Had_ being the key word. A science whiz, she was considered begrudgingly by their instructors to be quite promising, until, just a year from graduation, the Royal Guard caught her picking pockets _—_ namely, the Royal Guards’ pockets.

Radiant Academy had a stringent moral code for its upperclassmen, and once they hauled her to the dean’s offices, just before battle training, she was out the front door before the rest of them had put away their weapon polish. Lea recalls the cold tightness in his chest, winding the cap on hers and replacing it on the shelf next to his where it would sit untouched until the end of the year.

So she had opened a magic shop in a shoddy part of town and mixed herself up with every kind of criminal with coin to spare.

“Yep.” Lea wraps smartly on the door frame and tilts his head to get a better view of the disdain on Isa’s face. Lea has dragged Isa to every ragged hole in the wall and cob-webbed corner in Radiant Garden by now, and somehow it lingers, Isa’s contempt for the life of squalor they could be living if it weren’t for Radiant Academy.

It’s one of the few things that bugs him about Isa. _To think he’s somehow earned ingratitude._

_Although maybe it’s just fear. Of slipping back. Of accomplishing nothing, being nobodies like their fathers before them. A fisherman and a drunkard, or as they liked to call themselves, a sailor and a poet._

Isa’s arms cross and he leans his back against a thicket of ivy opposite the offending entryway. “Elrena, ‘If I ever lay eyes on you again, I’ll knock you from the top of the clock tower?’ That Elrena?”

“Huh.” Lea pauses, his hand, sheathed in a black fingerless glove, about to knock again. He smoothes a few spikes of his hair in thought, nose wrinkling. “I don’t remember saying that to her.”

“That’s because she said it to you.”

“Huh.” Lea knocks again with gusto, and the wooden door rattles, as if as restless as Isa to be on its way. “I bet she’s over it.”

Lea, a former sparring partner of Rena’s, whom she tolerated more than she did most because he was easy on the eyes and ears, could not have been less surprised at her expulsion. But considering his own childhood of misdemeanors, he felt a recurring twinge of guilt as well.

Isa stares at him. The usual stare, the one that says: _After all these years I still don’t understand you._ Lea lives for that look.

 _If we had gone straight to the castle we would be a quarter of the way there by now, at least,_ Isa’s brain continues. It’s increasingly clear that no one will answer Lea’s knocks, but he stands firm, patient. For someone whose mouth is in constant motion, he can stand impressively still.

Isa sighs. “Lea. What are we doing here?”

Lea seems to have been waiting for this. His voices lowers, unnecessarily dramatic. “Rumor has it, Rena can get us to the castle courtyard in no time flat.”

“And,” Isa begins skeptically, “if you get the job, you want your first act as a Royal Guard to be consorting with a known criminal and breaking and entering into the castle?”

“‘Course not.” Lea stretches an arm up the length of the door, and leans back to smirk at Isa. He tosses up his hands. “Who said _anything_ about breaking?”

Lea has no intention of going into the castle at all, but it’s fun to stretch Isa’s patience thin and watch him wriggle beneath the disapproving tirade of his conscience. Lea likes to see how crazed of a scheme he can get Isa to go along with.

 _Although, it’s been awhile, since we did anything_ really _crazy_.

Isa remembers when it became apparent to Lea that he had a real shot at joining the guard. He had bent over backwards to take it. He’d had to. If he was going to atone for his childhood of being chased around the royal gardens and courtyards for pranks and petty crime, he would have to become the best of the best.

After all, his competitors didn’t have any priors, their records as spotless as the polished marble floors of the palace. On the other hand, as Lea liked to tell himself, no one knew _their_ names. The Royal Guard had grown fond of him in spite of itself. He made small talk when they had long shifts and had an open invitation to poker night. All Lea had to do was give his friends an excuse to say he was worthy of the job.

So Lea hadn’t just memorized the Royal Guard’s 25-point Honor Code; he had lived it: avoiding old, toxic acquaintances like Rena, fighting himself off of cigarettes, accompanying Isa to extra training sessions at the ungodly hours of dawn. He only had one vice left. Code point eight: _Guards do not engage in romantic entanglements._ But that one he would keep.

For Isa, an advocate of law and order since birth _—_ who had always known that stringent, strategic obedience could be his only path to advancement _—_ helping Lea turn himself around had been one of the most gratifying periods of their lives-- _the ultimate I told you so._

 _So what is this?_ Isa wonders. _He couldn’t have chosen a worse time for a relapse._

Isa decides to be straightforward. He usually does. “This is a waste of time.”

Lea steps forward, as if squaring up for a fight, but he’s wearing that reassuring smile that says he knows what he’s doing when he doesn’t. “Not if it _works_ ,” he sings back.

“Because your plans always work,” Isa drawls testily, but the damage is done. Lea’s irresistibly confident grin melts Isa’s ice solid better judgment. The edges of Isa’s lips flicker up, just for a moment, and Lea knows his friend isn’t going anywhere.  

“ _Hey._ ” Lea sets his hands lightly on Isa’s hips and leans forward. “I resent your implication.”

Tucking his book beneath his arm, Isa wraps his fingers around Lea’s wrists. The leather of his gloves feels surprisingly cool, but then, so does the reply, as Isa bites off, eyes set on the deadend alley wall. “Well, I resent waiting for you.”

“Is that right?” Lea’s sarcasm burns through the chilly pull of the wind as it brushes hair from the back of their necks, and Isa meets his eyes to judge whether their argument has strayed from playful to painful. Lea could flip through six emotions at the rate most deeply felt one. Isa finds their green intensity tempered to gray, softened by the dark, Lea’s grin smaller, but still in place.

Lea seems a different person at times, in the shadows, alone and uninhibited, his coloring subdued but his expression realer, fiercer. Less like a matchstick and more like the sun. It could burn them both up. Sometimes Isa likes to watch the sparks. Not today.

“No,” Isa mumbles shortly. He tilts his head a fraction closer to Lea’s. “I trust you.”

Lea leans back, caught off-guard by the apology spelled on his friend’s face, in his eyes, cyan blue. _Bluer,_ Lea has always thought, _than a cloudless autumn sky._ He doesn’t really want to argue anymore.

Lea’s thumb runs across the side of Isa’s hand, and he tilts his face closer again, tone softening, “Isa…”

“Jesus,” a man’s voice complains from just a few feet off.

They separate like torn paper.

“Just make out already, would you?” His voice is smooth but jeering, old but familiar. “Haven’t got all day.”

The way they fall away from each other reminds the newcomer of a drip of water hitting a glass pane. They stare at him, back to the wall of ivy at the mouth of the alleyway, blatantly spying on them, as with a perfunctory flourish of the hand, he lowers his hood.

_Braig?_

“Braig?” Lea’s boots click as he edges a few steps closer.

Isa and Lea exchange a look, a question really. _Did you know he was back?_

This man’s brown hair is swept into a ponytail like Braig’s had always been, but his face and voice are weathered, like they had been left out in the sun to dry. Teenage girls lunching in the square when they were kids used to call Braig dashing and debonair, which had made the boys giggle until they thought they might puke. Isa wonders idly if they still would.

_Striking, maybe._

Isa and Lea have never seen Braig out of his navy guard’s uniform and scarlet scarf. Here, clad in a long black coat with silver drawstrings and a silver chain across the chest, he looks more menacing, foreign, even, like the criminal element in the comic books they used to read. What’s more, Lea’s pretty sure no shop in Radiant Garden sells anything like it.

 _So the rumors were true,_ Lea muses. _He’s been off-world._ Lea had asked Dilan about Braig once. Dilan, a castle guard, bragged a strong, formal accent, dark cords of long hair, and more prominent sideburns than any man Lea had ever met, and for these reasons, he radiated intimidation, but he had a quick laugh and an easy smile, if you knew what to say.

Lea had been at the pub, sloshing and crashing tankards with him and a few other guards after duty, but Dilan had shut that question down and he hadn’t pushed it. He had just been making conversation. Just trying to make peace with an old childhood boogeyman. What had or hadn’t happened to Braig was no skin off his back.

_Or it hadn’t been, anyway._

“Braig,” Lea forces his gritted teeth into a winning grin, “back in town at long last! We _have_ to catch up sometime.” As fondly, unrelentingly sarcastic to his friends as Lea is, sometimes it surprises Isa that he can be downright charming to strangers, how they beam and drool over it, and promptly eat it up.

But Braig’s never been a fool, and he isn’t eating something if he doesn’t know where it came from.

“My, my,” Braig sneers and that much of him is _exactly_ the same, “Flamesilocks and Little Boy Blue. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

 _More like sore eye,_ Lea thinks, noticing the black patch covering one of Braig’s. He would have dubbed it a fake, if it weren’t for the broad white scar clawed into his opposite jaw. Lea could imagine it all happened in one brutal swipe.

_What kind of heartless tried to eat you?_

But Lea keeps his mouth shut. Despite his face of aged leather, Braig has muscle definition that can be seen through the shapeless robe and a stance that says he’d knock you flat as soon as look at you.

Or maybe it was just that Lea already knew he would, could taste the blood in the back of his mouth as if it weren’t just a childhood memory.

“Little Isa and Leah, right?” Braig’s tone has grown unexpectedly nostalgic, considering the amount of times he had lifted them by the scruffs of their necks and threatened to toss them in the dungeon.

Lea felt an unexpected urge to draw a step closer to Isa, to brace against each threat together, arms linked, as they had as kids. As if two half-pints were somehow more intimidating than one. But Braig would laugh. He certainly had then.

Braig had been too smart to fine their families for munny they didn’t have and too amused or, more likely, too lazy to enforce real consequences. So he scared the spit out of them and smacked them around just a bit and then set them free.

But they hadn’t hero-worshipped him the way they had the other guards. Braig had a mean streak, more prominent than the lock of pure gray in his hair or the scar across his face. Nobody’d be surprised to see him kick a puppy.

“ _Lee_ ,” Isa corrects neutrally, and he, for one, does not look impressed.

Internally, he’s reevaluating the width of the alleyway, maybe a yard across, doubting they could make it past Braig at a dead sprint. _We both have too much pride to turn tail, regardless._

“That’s it.” Braig nods, tone still taunting, folding his arms to contemplate them. “ _Isa and Lea_. All grown up and still looking for trouble, eh?” He spreads his hands and Isa wonders if he’s referring to the kiss he’d almost witnessed, their proximity to Elrena’s place, or this entire block of town.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Isa levels, blue eyes and tone cool, though Lea sees his shoulders tense. “So whatever you think you just saw, you had best put behind you.”

It wouldn’t be the first time someone had seen them together, caught on that they might be more than friends, and there were people they had told, but those were trusted friends, family, a tight-lipped classmate or two, and Braig was a stray bullet.

“Psh,” Braig dismisses with a swish of his hand. “I ain’t totally blind. Looks like the two a you could take me down easy these days. You stay out a my business, I’ll stay out of yours. Besides,” the sneer returns in stark contradiction to his every word, “who would believe _me?_ ”   

Lea settles back on his heels and glances at Isa, deeming the former guard enough of a non-threat to take his eyes off him. “He has a point.”

If the rumors Lea had heard were true, Braig had broken at least seven points of the honor code, and even if the Royal Guard weren’t coming after him for treason, they would not be welcoming him back with open arms, either.

“I don’t like it,” Isa mutters. Lea squeezes his forearm in a “trust me” kind of way, and Isa winces, watching Braig watch them the way he used to watch Unversed _—_ the hellish, serpent-faced, hungry little beasts that overran the town before the Heartless came _—_ as they cornered bypassers in the courtyard. With detachment. As if Braig were thinking, just once, he might not rescue anybody. He might just sit back and watch.

Braig’s not about to wait for Isa to convince Lea he’s not to be trusted. “So, what brings you gentlemen down to my neck of the woods?”

Lea removes his hand, eyes still on Isa, mind still processing that wince. _We’re awfully hands off this morning._ He waves the hand toward the shoddy door. “We’re here to see Rena.”

“Ahh,” Braig hums, as if he should have guessed as much. “You wanna see the bitch or the witch?” he pockets his hands. “Because I might be able to save you the trouble.”

Isa hooks his thumbs in the loops of his trousers and can’t resist a glance to Lea, a smirk, and a fast, “The prior.”

 _How had he aced diplomacy?_ Lea’s elbow collides with Isa’s ribs, his expression cautionary: _We still don’t know what he’s doing here._

“I’m a friend,” Lea offers lightly, authentically enough.

Braig chuckles and it sounds like someone kicking up gravel. “Friend, my ass.”

 _He’s clearly met Elrena, then._ Isa manages to keep his smile tucked in his mouth..

“ _Okay_ ,” Lea concedes with a more discerning nod, pinching his thumb and forefinger together and raising them. “So she owes me a teensy favor.”

“Oh?” Isa breathes, close to his ear, disapproval loud and clear. Lea doesn’t have time to glance beside him and see how rigid Isa’s face has gone, despite whatever neutral expression is pasted to it for Braig’s benefit.

Braig’s brows rise and his sneer says his imagination has traveled somewhere unpleasant. “ _For?_ ”

 _Braig really_ does _know Elrena_ , Isa muses, surprised. No one’s seen him in years and he’s a good twenty years their senior, at least. _So how…?_

“Nothing interesting.” Lea flips his hand to indicate it wasn’t as serious as it actually was. “I just cleaned up a heartless infestation in her shop.”

He can still see hovering Emblems bumping out the ceiling tiles and showering them with a chalky paint-scented, throat drying dust _—_ can feel the ground vibrating underfoot as a Fire Plant pushed its roots through the cheap floorboards, its spit reducing an entire shelf of spell books to half a dust pan of ash. If it weren’t for Lea’s quick thinking with a sleek vase of buttercups, the entire shop may have gone up.

So even though he had told Isa he wasn’t talking to people like Rena anymore, even though he sometimes walked straight past her at the tavern without so much as a nod, when he heard something was going down, he had sprinted there.  

_Nobodies like us have to stick together._

Lea’s lack of embellishment turns out to be a mistake, because Braig sings, “ _And…?_ ”

Which forces Lea to think about the rest of it. “Oh…” His mouth twists, his hand on the back of his neck, as he tries to think of an easy answer that will satisfy Braig’s curiosity and pacify Isa.

“There’s more?” Isa hisses, and now Lea’s a little afraid to catch his narrowing eyes.

Nothing comes to mind. “And I helped her chase off an unwanted male caller or five while I was at it.” He says it casually, voice wrapped in its usual sarcasm, gently deprecating all parties involved, as if he were admitting to just knocking over the flower pot.

Isa rolls his eyes. _Or five._ He’s not sure whether to be impressed or furious. Five _and Lea rarely carries around a weapon. At least when he’s a guard he will be armed. Maybe then I can worry_ less.

Lea hadn’t known who the men who came pounding on Rena’s door were or what they were doing there, just that they started breaking and taking things the second they launched in and there were too many of them to constitute a fair fight. Since he’d cut class to come, he still had a couple hours to kill. _Figure I may as well put them to good use._

Lea had gone home to his apartment, hair seeming pink through the layer of dust, gloves scorched,  ribs bruised, bleeding heavily from a gash in his shoulder. And Isa, already there and used to Lea sparring in and out of the classroom, had cleaned him up without asking where it came from. He had just sighed, called him a damn fool, and pressed his lips to Lea’s shoulder. Then he fetched rubbing alcohol that would make Lea curse and yelp and clutch onto Isa’s shirt front in all the exact wrong ways.   

“And then you reported it?” Isa asks, because this isn’t about Braig anymore, it’s about the promises they made each other when Isa moved out on him, to avoid shit like this until they got jobs.

“Huh,” Lea’s expression lacks any real surprise as he eyes Isa and wonders what the right answer was. “I must’ve forgot.”

He thinks of something the headmaster had told him, just the two of them in his office for the fifth time in a month. _A really good guard reports but a really good_ bad _guard doesn’t get caught. Pick one, son._

And then, of course, Rena had been clinging to his arm, her long pointed fingernails unwittingly jabbing, begging him not to spread any of this around--bad for business--vehemently thanking him while insisting she hadn’t needed his help in the first place.

_What exactly had she said? Witches and bitches take care of themselves._

“Is that right?” Braig chuckles, hand covering his mouth. He’s dimly aware that he shouldn’t be making as much fun of them as he used to. Now that they’re both over six feet to his five seven and muscular to boot--Isa outright brawny and Lea in a lean, easier to miss way.

“Well,” Lea amends, reflective now, conversational even, “I think she could have handled them herself, but seeing as I was already there and all…”

Braig looks ready to drop the subject, but Isa turns to face Lea, smacking his arm with his book. “And why were you already there, Lea?”

Lea glances at the dirt below. The answers aren’t there, just his shoes (he should have polished them) and a bottle cap (he should have done a shot this morning). He raises his gaze and offers up an evasive grin. “...Grocery shopping.”

Isa rolls his eyes, one hand on his own hip and another landing on Lea’s, just above the belt, pushing him a step away. “Oh _please_.”

“Uh-oh,” Braig chuckles, “trouble in paradise.”

 _At this rate,_ Braig thinks, _I’m going to recruit these two just for my own personal entertainment. With stiffs like Dilan and Aeleus, the Royal Guard’s dead boring these days._

Lea scoffs, feeling his skin heat up beneath Isa’s grip, and gestures with his opposite hand. “She was my sparring partner!”

“Yes.” Isa shuts his eyes. He can feel a migraine coming on. “ _Was.”_

“If I don’t have her back,” Lea gestures out toward the world at large, both hands this time, “who’s going to? This is what being a guard is all about! Helping people—all people.”

Braig had seen Lea’s fiery temper reach detonation before, flippancy traded for raw emotion, volume carrying through the city streets, Moogles bobbing swiftly away. So he’s impressed now when it doesn’t. _Boy’s learned_ some _restraint at least._ ****

**_That will come in handy in our plans for him._ **

_What plans?_ He asks himself. The voice that had put the thought in his head wasn’t quite his own. It doesn’t reply. _Fucking Xehanort._

Fortunately, Lea and Isa are still going at it, and haven’t noticed Braig’s momentary mental absence.

“She hasn’t got anyone else looking out for her, Isa,” Lea carries on, softly, uncharacteristically grave. “I shouldn’t have to tell you what that’s like. Nobodies like us have to...”

Isa massages his thumb against his temple, tone equally forceful, “ _She_ hasn’t got anyone else because _she_ would sell her grandmother for a nice jacket. And starting today, when we read our names on the palace doors we won’t be nobodies anymore. So we have to stop acting like it. If Radiant Academy stops taking in broke kids, it’ll be because of people like her. Ninety percent of her business is below board. And she is a hundred percent using you, you…” he looks up just in time to see a pained expression darken Lea’s face, and his voice softens, “pretty fool.”

 _Ugh._ Braig thinks he tastes bile rising in his throat. _Who would have thought they’d grow into such saps?_

_On the other hand, they aren’t the harped angels Elrena keeps dragging either._

“ _That’s_ more like it,” Braig jeers, breaking into a self-satisfied grin. “Consorting with low lifes, hidden romance, willful withholding of evidence… And I’d heard you two had graduated and straightened out your acts.”

They stare in unison, masked frustration echoing on each other’s faces. Braig forgot they could do that. He’s always found it a little disconcerting.

Braig shrugs and nods knowingly, stepping closer now to lean against Elrena’s battered door, and, apparently unconcerned it will give in, fishing a cigarette from his pocket. He sets it between his lips as he rummages through a different pocket for a lighter. “Guess it’s true what they say. You can give a stray dog a bath and a collar, but it’ll still be a mutt.”

A choked noise escapes Lea’s throat, his manicured red brows leaping up his face and his mouth stretching, chewing on the insult.

Braig notes the fury with amusement. _They’re still too damn easy to rile up._

**_I can fix that._ **

Braig takes the cigarette and holds it out to Lea. “Can I get a light, hothead?”

Something dark flashes across Lea’s face. _I haven’t been working my ass off to clean up my act to have this old punk come back, make a mockery of our secrets, and bad mouth our fucking families._

“You,” Lea hisses, and Braig decides he doesn’t like the lower volume after all, “don’t know the _first thing—_ ”

Recognizing the firm set of Lea’s shoulders and the clench of his fists, the scent of ash hanging on the air, Isa steps in front of him to interrupt, before Lea can wipe the old man’s scowl from his face for him, “What are you doing here, Braig?”

_The last thing this wasted morning needs is to end in shackles._

Braig raises his hands as if in surrender. “Decided to make an honest man of myself.” He turns to examine the door and it’s the first he’s looked at it since arriving. “I’m a, uh, handyman.”  He gives the middle a firm knocking. “Just here to fix this unfortunate hunk of tree.”

“Of course _,_ ” Isa drawls, fingers tightening against Lea’s hip, trying to cue him that they ought to leave before the situation gets any further out of hand.

Lea runs his hand along Isa’s side, again intending to comfort, but Isa scowls at the missed signal. Lea drops his mouth open, just a bit. _I’m really striking out today._

Tiring of their bickering, Braig bangs so heavily on the door that the bottom corner lifts from the ground and the upper corner swings in. “El- _rena!_ ” he booms, and then says casually to them, over his shoulder “So, I take it you’re not here to arrest anybody?”

They go still, confused mainly, and exchange a look that, though their expressions remain confident, lets Braig know better. They watch as Braig stretches an arm out and downward, spreading his palm reflexively.  

The air surrounding it flickers like a shadow, and a weapon materializes in his grasp. Its shape and size resemble a long sword, its hilt a fan of silver projectile spikes, its shaft a long-barreled pistol. They had seen a less glamorous version in the academy armory. He remembers it mainly because of all the pointing people did to the heavily fortified case and all the recitations of the poorly written description card: _Arrowgun._ Highly _illegal._

 _Freaky magic arrowgun,_ Lea’s brain corrects. None of their academy instructors could conjure _that_. _So where had Braig learned how?_

Braig swings it up as if examining its weight, then levels the gun barrel at them and smirks. There’s something else about Braig that’s changed, something besides the eye patch and the hair and the coat.

 _His iris_ , Isa realizes, remembering the absent stare of the Heartless earlier, just before it skittered off. _It’s yellow._

Lea can taste it again as his fingers twine with Isa’s. Blood in the back of his throat.

 


	2. Chrysalis

“We’re not guards. We’re not _anything_ yet.” There’s a weapon aimed at his heart, and Isa still sounds condescending.

_Typical._

“Positions are being posted today at the castle, that’s where everyone’s heading, in case you hadn’t noticed. We were on our way there—”

“Shut it, blue.”

Braig keeps his arrowgun trained on their chests and Lea’s brain keeps pulling the trigger. It would release five spikes, a yard long each, at approximately 1,500 miles per hour. At this range they would run straight through him and Isa, maybe pin their corpses to the alley wall. Like butterflies on a bed of ivy.

 _At least it will be kind of poetic,_ a voice in Lea’s brain supposes in the spaces between the tick of final seconds. _Two nobodies on the cusp of becoming somebodies, laid to rest in the slum of Radiant Garden. An ashes to ashes sort of deal._

His brain replays the clip, muscles bracing for impact. _Gaping wounds, body seeping slowly out of itself, side by side with Isa, and I put him there. I pulled him into the fray, just like every other damned day of his life._

_Pinned. Side by side. Like dying and watching yourself die all at once._

_And for what? A short cut?_

_Fuck._

_Is Isa going to die because I overslept and spent an extra ten minutes redoing my eyeliner?_

Isa’s hand starts to go slack and Lea notices what he must have, the seconds have stretched to a minute and Braig still hasn’t fired yet. 

 _Thank God._ Lea exhales. _Those were some shitty final thoughts._

Isa opens his mouth to continue but Braig lifts his cigarette from his lips and _tsks_ , the weapon in his hand pulsing with red-purple light. Isa’s words sputter into incomprehensible silence. Lea wishes he knew what they were, because the only ones in his head are _Fuck you, you demented asshole_ , which probably won’t improve their circumstances any.

They stand impossibly still, wrapped in the scent of his cigarette smoke and their sweat, listening to each other breathing slow, so Braig won’t suspect what he already knows.

 _These punks are terrified._ He can see it in the twining of their fingers, so tight the skin beneath has gone a bloodless white.

But he still hasn’t fired.

Lea’s torn between using his final words to reason with Braig or say goodbye to Isa. But if there’s a chance they can make it out of this, he figures he’d better take it. They hadn’t even done anything to set the old man off.

_Or had we just been that big of pains in his ass as kids?_

“Have you thought this through, man?” Lea bursts finally, and Braig’s aim redirects to the center of his chest. Isa’s forearm tenses against his. Maybe he can see it too. _Butterflies_. “Because Isa here is about to be rolling in coin and he is feeling _exceedingly_ generous at the moment.”

“ _Wow_.” Braig shakes his head, lets his cigarette drop, and to their amazement, chuckles warmly. “Neither of you knuckleheads is even armed?” He lowers the nose of the arrowgun barrel to the ground and leans his elbow against the hilt like it’s an umbrella. “You two really are still children.”

He frowns at Isa, who has braced himself to rush at, or maybe past him, but is reined in by Lea’s hand, tight around his elbow. Braig could have that weapon up and fired before Isa got two feet. Lea had seen him do it.

 “Least now I can be damned sure you ain’t with the guard,” Braig gestures vaguely with two fingers, seeming to forget he’s dropped his cigarette, “ _Yet_ , anyway. Little tip: arm yourselves. It may be called Radiant Garden, but it isn’t a damn picnic.” Realizing the cigarette is no longer in his hand as he goes to raise it to his mouth, Braig lifts his elbow from the arrowgun and it evaporates. “It ain’t all dandelions and bumblebees. Remember that.”

“Like I said,” Lea enunciates, venom on his lips, “it’s a _social_ call. And you’re an awfully nosy handyman.” He wonders if Rena’s hired him as some kind of security guard. Good magic’s worth a pretty penny and Rena had gotten her hands on a ton of it. But Rena would have put Lea’s name on the entry list.

_Wouldn’t she?_

Braig chuckles, the muscles in his shoulders relaxing now that the threat has passed. “Yeah, well, doesn’t hurt to double check.”

Isa clears his throat in apparent disagreement. “Seeing as Elrena’s _not_ around and Lea and I are running _hopelessly_ late.” _And you may well be a homicidal maniac,_ he tacks on mentally, and to his credit, his voice hardly quivers until the end. “We’d best be on our way.”

Braig rolls his shoulders. “Still the killjoy, eh, Isa?” He meets Isa’s eye and the gold in his own glimmers before he refocuses his attention on hammering his fist into the door.  “No need to go running off; I’ll help you out.”

He bangs again, three staccato beats. “EL! RAY! NA!” An echo of his voice resonates inside.

Braig’s attention thus disengaged, Isa and Lea quietly cross the few steps behind him toward the alley entrance.

“Hey, nuh-uh,” Braig seems to be muttering to himself until he points to the guys, about to sprint off, and his hand once again opens to reveal his weapon of choice. “Stay put, gentlemen. Let me do you a solid, here.” Braig refocuses his attention on the door knob, and more particularly the jamb. He tries to lever it open with his elbow. _No dice._ _Shit._ Much less impressive than he was hoping.

Lea motions for Isa to start walking again, and says, to keep Braig’s attention occupied, “So where’ve you been, man? Heard you skipped town with the guard on your tail.” The implication is clear enough: _Heard you betrayed them._

Most guards would take deep offense at this, but maybe it’s true, because Braig shrugs a shoulder and gives the knob a violent twist.

“And _I_ heard,” Braig pauses, repositioning the arrowgun in the crook of his arm, facing the door, “Isa dumped you.” He clicks his tongue a couple times. “Shouldn’t listen to rumors, _Leah_.”

Isa’s nearly around the corner when Braig turns his head to see Lea’s face. _He’s not offended,_ Braig notes, disappointed, _so maybe it’s true._

Caught in Braig’s peripheral, Isa has no choice but to stalk the few steps back to them. “I heard you died,” Isa comments in retribution.

Braig’s smirk is enigmatic. “Not yet, I haven’t.”

“So what are you doing back in town?” Lea doesn’t like to repeat himself, but Dilan, the Guard, will want to know.

“Heh.” Braig returns his attention to the door. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Neither of them has time to guess what that means because without warning, Braig fires the arrowgun. With a sound that rings in their ears like a thunderclap, the middle spike takes the door knob clean off, and the other four stick out of the wood and stone wall in a straight line, like an obscure shelf or an edgy art installation. Braig gives the door a final shove with the underside of his boot and struts through in a cloud of sawdust.

 _Much_ , Braig decides, _more impressive._

From where Isa and Lea stand when the wood chips settle, they can see Braig tossing his arrowgun down by the doorway, near a fading leather messenger bag Elrena wouldn’t be caught dead wearing. Even as the weapon evaporates, it awakens some kind of strange white heartless, curled up on itself next to a pair of boots several sizes too large to belong to the shop owner.

Braig cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “Honey! I’m home!” as Isa and Lea look on in stunned silence behind him.

And they probably would have made their break for it then, had Elrena not yelled from some inner chamber, “Fuck off, Braig!”

Braig smiles to himself, and it’s the most genuine one yet. “She’s going to be pissed I forgot my fucking key.”

Lea and Isa take another look at each other. The conversation occurs mainly through facial expression and the kind of mind reading that comes from having known a person too long.

_We need to go._

_Or..._

_Now._

_We’re so close._

_You’re not serious._

And then the window of opportunity closes, because Braig’s waving Lea inside, and he’s pretty clearly established that what he wants is not up for debate.

“You can come on in, red. But I’d leave the arm candy outside, if I were you.” Lea steps into the threshold, and Braig muffles his voice with his hand, “El’s got a bit of a thing for you, fireball, and I’m betting she’s the jealous type. So if a favor’s what you’re after...”

Lea nods, unimpressed.

Isa catches all of this, as Braig fully intended, but already well aware, he says nothing until Lea looks back at him with unusually earnest green eyes and an expression that says: _If you don’t want me to go, I won’t._

Propping open his book in one hand, Isa stares intently at it, though the words blur and he no longer remembers the title. “Five minutes, Lea.” He says it without looking up, like nothing’s happened—like he’s standing outside a market booth, while Lea drools over sweet breads. “Don’t make me wait.”

“Yeah, yeah, relax, Isa.” Lea tosses the ghost of a soothing smile over his shoulder, giving Isa’s hand a final squeeze before he steps after Braig, and for the first time today, Isa doesn’t flinch away from it before he lets go. “It won’t take that long.”

Braig shuts what’s left of the door, and Isa bends down to peer at Lea through the massive hole blasted through the knob like a bite in a chocolate bar. “And Lea…” his impatience doesn’t quite smother his anxiety, “be careful.”

Braig lets out another low chuckle as Isa steps away from the door, nose still in his book. Lea wonders if he’ll run off to fetch a guard. But who knew what Braig would feel compelled to do if he found Isa missing? Or what he would say for that matter, if the guard did show? Braig _had_ caught them practically mouth to mouth.

Most of the guards would look the other way. Most had secret significant others or lovers themselves, but there were a few purists who wouldn’t be so kind.

_King’s Guard Honor Code Point 8: No romantic entanglements._

Lea lets the thoughts fade off with an exhale. He needs his wits about him if he’s going to deal with Rena too.

“Here to fix the door, huh?” Lea remarks with a final backward glance, following Braig into the parlor.

 

Isa’s still thinking about Elrena when he flips the tenth page of the book he’s still not reading and leans against the alley wall Braig almost made him and Lea living graffiti on. He draws up his knee to set the novel down and sighs up at the carved lightning bolt sign above the magic shop door. Its chains clatter in the wind that swipes his hair across his face like bangs.

Despite an air of confidence that could float a hot air balloon, or maybe an entire zeppelin, Isa suspects Lea doesn’t really understand the full extent of the crush Elrena has had on him since he volunteered to be her sparring partner in the ninth grade. _Probably,_ Isa frowns, _because she’s still such a bitch to him._

It had been swoon-worthy though, or so he’d heard. The Master Trainer had randomly selected Elrena first to pick a partner and her mouth had fallen open a bit. No one else would so much as look at her. Intelligent people tended to be afraid she would chew them out or electrocute them and snobby people tended to be afraid they would catch her poverty like the common cold.

Lea, popular, easy-going spirit that he is, could have paired up with anyone. But hadn’t seemed to notice any of the warning signs, (or so Isa had heard in fifth period--Isa rather suspected he had), just strolled up and slung an arm around her shoulders and said “Hey partner” like an old friend. And for her part, she didn’t call him a dumbass or an asshole for at least the first week. For Elrena, that was like a love note in its own right.

Yes, if Lea knew the extent of her crush, he would have stopped dropping in and getting her hopes up like this by now.

Not that Isa hasn’t tried to tell him. Hell, _Braig_ had tried to tell him. But Lea laughed it off. He seemed to think of her as an inconvenient responsibility of his, like a distant cousin or a parking ticket.

But after all these years, it’s nothing short of miraculous that she has no idea Lea is gay.

Isa and Lea can hardly be called subtle. The final night of midterm exam week had been particularly disastrous. The pair of them had had too much to drink and half their friends had seen them sitting on top of the long bar at the Cider Tavern in West Side, blue uniformed bodies indistinguishable, making out for a good ten minutes before the bartender had whacked them in the back of the heads with a hissed, “Not _here_ , gentlemen.”

Still more had seen them near passed out under a magnolia tree a few blocks away, ghost white flower petals in their absurdly bright, mussed hair and sleepy smiles on their faces.

But if most of the kingdom had suspected something at some point, well most of the kingdom had also seen Isa drag all of his possessions out of the apartment they used to share at dawn one morning in late winter, mere months from graduation. Had seen him carting them across town, entirely alone, shivering and snow soaked, through eight inches of slush, as flurries stung his skin and made his hair glitter when the street lamps caught it. Lea had watched from the window, a creamy afghan wrapped around his shoulders and a mug warming his palms, and worried his bottom lip.

Isa thinks of his new place mostly as quiet. It’s a coat closet essentially, a shoe box, the landlady had said, but a nicer district, a prettier view from a wide balcony window lined by flower boxes of lavender. A sham, mostly.

He rarely spends a daylight hour there. The only time they had really split up was when they had turned sixteen. They had begun to realize that the innocent traits of childhood friendship: clasping hands in tight situations, falling asleep tangled together after wrestling each other in the lazy sun rays of the community garden, sliding into one desk side by side in the back row of class and whispering secrets into each other’s ears… They looked a little different on adults.

The split had lasted three miserable weeks. Then they stopped caring how it looked.

The move, three months ago, had been Lea’s idea. Because of Royal Guard Honor Code Point 8. But mostly because Lea hated the idea, put in his ear by more than one well-meaning friend and instructor (Isa had stopped speaking to each of them), that an association with a stained character like his might cost Isa his apprenticeship—his future.

And then, once Isa has the job, has made himself indispensable, then maybe Lea would let him back in.

Isa brushes the hair from his forehead and abruptly feels very tired. Through the hole in the wall, he can hear every word uttered by Braig’s booming voice, and most of the ones from Lea, and he decides to focus on that.

  

“Couldn’t let you two punks arrest me, could I?” Braig shrugs, like he’d bruised Lea’s jaw instead of held him at gunpoint.

“We’re not _with_ the Guard.”

“But it’s only a matter of time, right?”

Lea’s lips thin as he steps across a black rug marked with a black, gold, and white geometric pattern like an eye. “So you did betray them then.”

Braig scoffs. “ _Hardly_. I was suspended for a minor infraction. You seem familiar with those,” a bit of his sneer returns, and Lea can’t help but wish he had run into an unstable criminal who hadn’t known him as a prepubescent, “so I’ll spare you the details. I sought temporary alternative employment and it turned out a lot less temporary than I originally planned. Now that I’m back, I figure they’ll haul my ass in sooner or later. But I’m not ready just yet.”

Naturally, Lea doesn’t believe a word of this testimony. “Put it that way and you’re a regular saint, Braig.”

“Hey,” Braig’s poking through a cabinet at the bottom of a shelf set against the front wall, and comes up with a glass bottle, contents the color of honey, “you asked.”

Lea shrugs and pauses to take in his surroundings. His feet retrace the mad sprint of his previous visit. Since the heartless attack, the mid-sized shop parlor had been soaked—shelves, walls, ceiling—in fresh black paint that erased each scorch and highlighted the heartless claw marks like impressive battle scars.

Shelves and glass cases have been repaired beyond reproach, each book, jar, and obscure object righted and buffed. New carpets spread across places he had seen the dark wooden floorboards uprooted. Overhead lights are all operational and a fire hums low in the stone hearth that squats unobtrusively at the far end of the room to his left, near a staircase that leads up to Elrena’s flat.

 _She’s really put her jaded little heart and soul in this place,_ Lea realizes.

 _So where is she then?_ The front register stands unattended straight in front of the entrance in testament to her absence.

Unconcerned, Braig dumps himself on a low graying couch to his right, hung with a sizeable quilt. It squeaks a bit beneath his muscle mass as he spreads his arms across the cushy top and leans back. “Your boyfriend always so uptight?”

“Pretty much,” Lea replies without thinking, the question all too familiar, a smirk falling into place only a second before he reconsiders. “To be fair, we are running late for the most important day of our young adult lives.”

Setting his sights on a display case near the couch, Lea scoots down the bleached skeleton of an unknown creature with immense horns and boosts himself up. He crosses his arms, kicks up his legs, inhales a last whiff of formaldehyde, and then turns an accusing glare on Braig. “And you did just threaten to kill us.”

Braig doesn’t have time to argue this, nor would he probably have done so. The sound of a door slamming fully into a wall draws their attention to the top of the staircase at the other end of the room. A figure descends, each barefoot step making an impact like another slam. She’s wrapped and hooded in a black coat identical to Braig’s, and when she reaches the bottom she flicks down the hood to glare at Braig who, to his credit, has leapt up to meet her, an unpleasant smile playing at his lips 

As always, Elrena’s near floor length blonde hair is pulled into twin ponytails. Though released from the hood, they hang damply, trailing water, rather than twist in their usual spirals. Her coat smears the droplets her hair leaves in its wake as it drags across the floorboards, and the sleeves hang well past her hands.

Braig crosses his arms and quirks an eyebrow. “Is that my coat?”

“You left it on the damn towel rack, Braig,” she fires off. “Can’t a bitch take a shower without having her door broke down?”

Braig’s head tilts just slightly, considering her figure. “Looks better on you.”

“Gag. Please. You use a towel, you hang up a new towel. Sweetie, the concept is not that hard.” She catches sight of what’s left of the front door and the air around her hands crackles with electricity. Steam rises off her hair and it starts to curl. It’s all Lea can do not to giggle. “You _literally_ broke down the fuckin’ door?”

“Oops.”

She paces forward, the bolts of light at her fingertips lengthening, crackling.

“Yeesh.” He backs up a half step. “Forgot my key. May have also run into a pinch of trouble out in the alley. Had me worried you might be in hot water, so I busted down the _already_ busted door. Keep hollerin’ in my face like that and I won’t fix it.”

 She sighs and the lightning dies down to a fizzle. “You can fuck off. _I’ll_ fix it.”

 _Bitches and witches,_ Lea recalls.

Braig’s smile says he knows he’s been forgiven. “Why not get your soldier boy Lea to fix it for you?” He says it like he’s said it before. Lea knows Rena has a soft spot for him, but hearing it so saccharine out of Braig’s mouth turns his stomach.

Elrena pouts, surprised at the jab, and then abruptly giggles. Her mouth twists, opens to say something about Lea and a hammer and screwing, and then the skeleton beside Lea collapses, and she catches sight of him in the flesh.

Lea’s lounging on an expensive, blue velvet topped display case under a beam of warm spotlight, like the statue of some kind of sun god. The amusement drops from her face as heat rises.

“Rena, hey.” He waves, a swift, small flick of the hand. “Place looks _nice!_ ”

“What?” Her green eyes widen for a split second, caught on the way the display light catches the gold in his red mane, before she catches herself, and her nose tilts up into the air. “Hmph.”

Elrena sashays up to him, nimbly, despite the dragging robe. Braig thinks she probably can’t help herself, _animal magnetism and all that._ She sets her finger under Lea’s chin, tilts it up. “Shouldn’t you be at the castle checking to see if anyone really likes you?”

He lowers his jaw into her palm, so he’s meeting her green eyes, wondering how people deal with having to look into his, such an unsettlingly unnatural light shade, like grass after rain.

“I’ve still got time.” He’ll have to correct that lie in minute, but it’ll hold up until then. “What about you?” His lazy tone takes on a hint of deeper, authentic concern, “You told me you’d take care of yourself a little bit.”

“Don’t get all high and mighty, academy brat.” The green eyes roll, pink lips pout, she yanks her hand away as if scorched, flings both wrists in the air, starts to walk off but almost immediately circles back. “My rent’s paid and my water’s running. And we both know when they slap that uniform on you, you’re going to stop checking up on me completely.”

Lea leans back on his wrists and crosses his ankles in front of him. He finds her eyes again, hopes she doesn’t really think that, wonders if she might be right. “I’ll go wherever I’m needed.”

She makes another indignant sound. “North side it is.”

 If the quadrants of town were people, the north side would be impeccably, luxuriously dressed and perpetually well-mannered. He would be thin, attractive, and a little boring. He would work in the castle and spend his free time watching his gardeners lug dirt across his plot of land, while sipping sparkling water and waving his hand this way or that in direction

He would _just hate_ the west side. She would be artsy yet tasteful. She would wear bold patterns and exotic colors and overlarge jewelry and have hobbies like painting and playing the mandolin. She would be just okay at one or the other but definitely not both. She would brag too much for her own good, and try too much at everything, but the others would still visit, because she served up the best dishes and gossip in the kingdom. She would poke fun at the east side out of a backwards brand of envy.

If the east side were a person she would dress in patched, but reliable clothes, rainbow colored as a kid, but black and solemn as an adult, a graduation from hand-me-down scarves and bows to worn boots, belts, and leather. The east side would work all of the time (six siblings) but rarely complain. Would be a pleasant pessimist, rough and tumble, yet sociable to a fault. Would wear too much make-up or not enough. Would have a lot of bad habits and a lot of good friends.

If the south side were a person, he would be Braig.

 Lea’s not surprised to hear Elrena say it. Being from the central southeast, his neighbors were always muttering that the guard neglected the grittier parts of town. He’d muttered it more than once himself, scrambling after somebody clutching a stolen handbag or scrubbing graffiti off his pop’s porch steps.

“So he _does_ want to be a guard.” Braig raises his beer as if toasting his powers of deduction. “Thought so. You always were yelling about how you were gonna _be_ somebody someday or some shit.” Braig glances casually toward the door as if he can see Isa through it and takes a sip. “How’s that Honor Code treating you?”

Lea’s tongue weighs a pound and his spine stiffens involuntarily. “ _Fine_. Thanks.”

Braig loves the way Lea hisses it, wonders how far he can push before Blondie gets huffy. “That code eight is a doozy.”

Lea forces himself to inhale calm and exhale temper. He pretends someone else has said it. Gives the textbook response, “I know what I signed up for. I’ll _manage_.”

The way Lea bites down on the last word makes Braig chuckle. _Guess I might have stumbled on to more than a passing, experimental fling._

“Believe it, Braig. Our Lea here’s run so many errands, the captain of the guard practically calls him son. The Code is his life. When I met him he was a chain-smoker with a vocabulary worse than yours and a locker full of contraband.  Now he’s rescuing kittens from trees and more celibate than—”

Lea swishes his hand, relaxed but disinterested, “He gets the picture, Rena.”

“You used to be fun,” she smiles ruefully, settling onto the case beside him and poking a finger at his chest. “Before Isa straightened you out.”

Braig flicks his bottle cap unceremoniously across the floor. “Interesting choice of words.”

Lea’s eyes dart from the cap to Braig’s in warning, but he’s preoccupied with watching Elrena for any sign of awareness. There’s pity in his frown.

 _Almost,_ Lea considers, _like he wants to spare her the trouble. Maybe they’re...actually friends?_

Used to ignoring Braig’s cryptic humor, generally directed solely at himself, as if there were someone else up in his headspace worth impressing, Elrena’s still looking up into Lea’s distracted eyes and Lea forces himself into a slow smile.

“Really?” he teases her. “ _You_ were almost as much of pain then as you are now.”

 Her eyes roll again. “Yeah, whatever.” She reaches to fish a cigarette out of her (Braig’s) coat’s breast pocket, but watching the slightest discomfort shift on and off Lea’s face, she slips it back. “You miss me.”

Braig’s not sure he’s ever heard her string together so many words of affection in one day. _Clearly, growing into his obnoxiously red hair and pulling his act together has turned Lea into some kind of love magnet._

“Well, well,” Braig mocks, standing to cut in. “Guess you really have put your boyish days of trying to sneak up that clock tower behind you.”

“Clock tower?” Elrena frowns.

“The one in central plaza. It’s off limits to the public,” he gestures to Lea with his bottle and their eyes catch, shards of green and gold, “but this boy had something to prove.”

Lea bristles. He can feel the ghost of Braig’s hands digging into his bony preteen shoulders like heavy rope. Feel his kneecaps give way against a swift blow, the grooved floorboards marking his calves on impact. Remembers spitting, the dirt taste of blood. The bell had tolled and he must have been so close because the clang vibrated through his bones and suffocated his ears.

“Ever make it to the top?” Braig takes a swig of beer, but he’s still watching him closely, that same nostalgic intrigue drawing his mouth into a smile Lea doubts he’s even aware of. Lea’s reminded distantly and unpleasantly of his father.

Fortunately, Lea’s been in enough scrapes to know how to keep his emotions entirely separate from his face. “Too many stairs.” He shakes his head and laughs wistfully, remembering the sheer determination that would set his entire being on fire, force him to keep climbing, scheming, trying, and channeling it now to stay calm, stay seated. “I was shorter then.”

“Wicked fast, though. Faster than blue.”

_That’s right, you put his face in the dirt too, you bastard._

“Isa was a _terrible_ look-out, he got us caught every damn…” Lea can feel the glow of a nostalgic smile of his own, and promptly shuts himself up. _Braig has enough material without me fanning the flames._

Elrena perks up, misreading Lea’s abrupt cut off. “That’s _right_.” She kicks out her leg in triumph and bumps the tangled skeleton. The white heartless has crawled up to it and is sniffing at the bone as if thinks it’s found a fellow freak of nature. Elrena shoos it away with a swing of her bare foot and it skitters backward on its hind legs and floats over to the other side of Lea, where it stands staring up at him vacantly. Looking at it, white diamond face, zippered mouth, pointed limbs, his mind feels a bit... _numb?_

_What is that thing?_

Braig observes his unease with a chuckle. “Just a dusk, red. It won’t hurt ya.”

Elrena is not about to let Braig’s stupid pet screw up her perfect segue.

“I heard _all about_ you and Isa,” Elrena continues, her voice brightening with a gleeful mock tragedy that may, in fact, be what she thinks sympathy sounds like. “So _sad_ that he moved out on you.”

She lifts a significant portion of the skeleton, and Lea stands to make room, glad for an excuse to move away from her total lack of compassion.

“Do tell,” Lea growls, glancing away from her, to the bitten chocolate bar door, wondering if Isa’s still out there, flipping pages he hasn’t read, hand raking through his hair, fingers tapping against the brick behind him.

“Isa’s ashamed to be seen with him,” Elrena carries on to Braig, who, at the very least, appears to be listening over the lip of his beer, “afraid he won’t get a job if he’s still associating with the other name written on the reports of all his brushes with the law starting at age six…”

Lea laughs.

 _As if Isa hadn’t done all those things_ with _me._

But Lea made the plans and dragged Isa along for the ride, and the blame always fell twice as heavy on the red head’s scrawny shoulders.

“Something has to be done about _that_ Lea,” the town folk would chide. “Coaxing our poor, sweet, innocent, perfect little Isa into such nonsense.”

It never seemed to occur to them that Isa always _let_ himself get coaxed into it. That maybe not all the ideas had come from Lea in the first place.

But Lea’s father was a drunkard and a public disgrace, and Isa’s mother was a nurse and a saint who had him dotingly parading his four younger sisters through the east side garden every other weekday, usually crowned in a daisy chain.

So that had always been the way of it.

“Is that right?”

If Elrena had been even remotely suspicious of Isa and Lea’s relationship, she would have heard everything she needed to know in Braig’s choice of inflection. As it is, she continues to heft the remaining skeletal remains onto the case. 

As it is, Lea tears his eyes from the door, lifts a smooth, glossy amber _Fira_ charm (definitely unlicensed) from a nearby display cushion, and strides toward Braig, unaware of the gray smoke already rising from the back of his neck, just below the collar. 

_Elrena can’t keep a secret for shit._

No longer interested in picking a fight, Braig gives the slightest shake of his head and deflects to throw off Elrena, “Those assholes _reported_ you? Jesus, things went downhill when I left.”

“Right because beating the shit out of preteens was so much nobler of you.”

Braig pointedly ignores this and the fire that flares up Lea’s forearms like living tattoo sleeves. “I just mean, trying to climb a clock tower thirty six times is hardly the stuff of a hardened criminal.”

Lea nods at this and the fire extinguishes.

Elrena, still reassembling, hums in agreement. “Isa’s always been a hard-ass.”

Lea’s knuckles blaze. His pointed emerald glare shutting Braig’s open mouth.

Braig sets his head back into the pillow and yawns. “She’s right. You used to be more fun. Maybe that’s why Boy Blue checked out on you.”

“Isa wants to be a scientist. Ansem only has a handful, he can afford to be picky. So Isa has to walk the straight and narrow, even if there isn’t room for me to walk beside him.”

Giving the skeleton’s horns a final brush, Elrena notices Lea’s no longer beside her, but towering over the couch. The wide spread of his feet and clench of his fists tells her Braig isn’t playing nice. She picks her way over to Lea, sets both hands on his shoulder, and begins in a more soothing tone, “I’m not trying to upset you, sweetheart. All I’m saying is, you let me know if you get too lonely in that big old flat of yours.” She taps his nose. “I’ll be right over.”

The remaining orange sparks spattered across the tops of Lea’s hands fizzle out with small sputtering puffs. Expression perfectly impassive, Lea rolls his eyes to Braig.

“Rena, I’m not _that_ single.”

Braig forcibly chokes down another rumbling laugh and his throat reddens with the effort.

Elrena misses both of these priceless reactions, however, because she catches sight of the _Fira_ gleaming warmly between Lea’s index and middle finger and she proceeds to seize his wrist. 

They can hear the slap of Braig’s palm against his forehead. “You are the absolute fucking worst at asking for favors.” 

She makes an exasperated sound in the back of her throat. “Cough it up, pyro.” Her grasp tightens, long pointed, emerald-painted nails digging, tone suddenly much less amenable.

Lea drops the stone in her hand with a playful grin. “She just caught me stealing, Braig.”

She pockets the stone and takes a step back. _These two. It’s like water and electricity walked into a bar._

“The. Fucking. Worst.”

 “ _You_ try it next time.” Lea glares, arms crossing, dropping onto the couch cushion beside Braig, who retracts his arm from across the top.

Braig gestures to his pile of stuff with his beer, “I _live_ here. I already succeeded. _You_ live alone.”

Lea sighs, sensing Elrena’s thought process just before it ends. “Did you have to put it like that?”

Elrena pounces on this reversion to their previous conversation, “I just don’t see why you were ever friends with Isa. He’s so serious and studious and you’re so…”

“Lazy and stupid?” Braig supplies.

“Wild and captivating?” Lea smirks, shutting his eyes and leaning his head back, knowing his hair will be wrecked by the time he reaches the castle square, if he _ever_ reaches the castle square.

Elrena shrugs, seating herself on the coffee table just in front of them. “Not.”

_I wonder what Isa would say to that._

Lea’s eyes open wide, realizing for the first time it's entirely possible Isa can hear them through the door and will give him all kinds of hell for the time he’s wasted on these not-so-niceties. “Exactly.” Lea finds himself hoping Isa’s still out there anyway. “He _needs_ me.”

“Needed,” Braig corrects helpfully and takes another swig to block his grin.

Elrena relaxes, leaning back onto her wrists, palms spread on the table top. “Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know why you’re still single’s all I’m saying. You’d be better off living with someone more fun.”

“Like you and Braig?”

Elrena looks disgusted, Braig amused.

“He wishes.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, darling.”

Braig gives an ambiguous wave to the general area of the couch and his things and the dusk, now seated on the table beside Elrena, as if listening, fading in and out of visibility like some sort of ghost.  “I’m just couch-surfing.”

The remaining pieces finally click in Lea’s brain. “I’d imagine harboring a fugitive pays well?”

Braig looks less amused. “Damn straight it does.” He reaches out and elbows Elrena in the knee. “Fucking pickpocket.”

“Another word,” she says, and clearly not for the first time, because her tone could slice metal, “and I’ll send you packing.”

“I’ll have my old job back soon enough,” he drawls, with no effort to bury his irritation, a threat in the way he sets down his beer and leans forward. “Be _nice_ to me and I might recommend you both to Ansem.”

 _Hold up, what?_ Hadn’t Braig just threatened his and Isa’s lives at the very notion of being brought in to the Guard? And after whatever mysterious lawbreaking shit had gone down to force him to vacate the _planet_ , how could he talk about getting his job back?

And yet he spoke it with a slow certainty that made the fine red hair on the back of Lea’s arms rise.

“You get me on the Guard, Braig, and you can live with me until the day I die.”

Lea’s surprised to find Elrena’s remark unaccompanied by a snide smile, as if she too is hesitant to tell Braig what he is or isn’t capable of.

“You see, Isa.” Braig leans back, smile smug. “That’s how you get a favor.”

“It’s Lea.”

Braig frowns as if Lea’s expected him to remember the name of his neighbor’s cat. “Well, whichever.”

“Speaking of favors.” Lea figures his five minutes are up. “Remember that time I stopped this place from being ransacked and burned to the ground?”

Elrena drops her head back, so that she’s looking at the staircase she came down, wishing she hadn’t. “Not dropping by cause you missed me, huh?” She straightens, makes eye contact with Lea, works up a halfway convincing indignant scowl. “Ugh. I should have known.”

“I wouldn’t be asking, but as you may have noticed, I am running incredibly late to the apprenticeship announcements.” That wry, wheedling smile. “I need a portal to the castle, and a little birdie told me you could make that happen.”

She blanches. “You’re cashing in the enormous favor I owe you because you _overslept?_ ”

Lea chuckles softly, one hand behind his head, ruffling the flaming mess. “Can you do it?”

Braig has to give him credit. _The guy is smooth as fuck and Elrena is melting._

She frowns, a glance to Braig. “No.”

“No?” Lea’s eyes narrow, head tilts. His relaxed demeanor rapidly dissipating.

She laughs brightly at his expense, “But Braig can.”

Braig nods. “Shame _I_ don’t owe you a favor.”

Elrena's not having it. A shock of electricity crackles through her ponytails. “You owe _me_ , asshole.”

Braig’s eyebrows rise. Hand pausing in the act of picking up his beer.

“The door, Braig. You fucked up my door.”

He tilts the beer at her to concede the point and sets it back down. “Fine.” He directs his attention to Lea. “I take you two star-crossed lovers wherever. You, me, and Blondie are square. On one condition.”

Lea hesitates but nods.

“My dramatics in the alley? Let’s keep that between us. I’ll put myself on the Guard’s radar when I’m good and ready.”

Lea has a civic responsibility to report Braig. A responsibility he would be thrilled to fulfill.

But with everything Braig knows: his feelings for Isa, his friendship with Elrena, his foray into vigilante justice, unlicensed use of magic, childhood crimes he’d never been reported for…

_But if I don’t report him, and Braig hurts somebody else..._

“What did he do this time?” Elrena asks, standing up, eyes casting around the room for something.

Lea’s lips purse. “He tried to turn me into a shish kabob.”

“Hey,” Braig rises as well, patting Lea’s shoulder and meeting his eyes as if he can sense his inner turmoil. “Water under the bridge. I’m going to be keeping the hold-ups to a minimum from now on. Low profile. Guard’s honor.”

Outside the clock tower clangs fifteen after.

Lea heaves an exasperated sigh. He doesn’t really believe him. “...Fine.” He can figure it out later. He surveys the array of magical artifacts around him. Elrena’s prowling, already, looking for something specific. “So what do we have to do to make the portal?”

Braig snaps his fingers. The air beside him shudders and shifts, creating an oval about the size of a door, swirling in on itself, flashing smoky shadows of black, blue, and purple, sucking the life and light from the air around it. It becomes slightly harder to breathe, like walking at a high altitude. Lea stares into the void, and it’s heavy, lightless, pressing, drawing, mesmerizing. Like absence, like sleep. Like something more permanent than either. 

Physically, Lea feels like he’s standing outside stark naked in January. Chills rise from his ankles to the back of his neck.

Braig steps casually through the portal, the dusk following, weaving around his legs like a cat.

The portal disappears as quickly as it came and reopens on the other side of the room near the hearth, where Elrena stands, triumphant, a long metal ash brush in her hands.

“Neat parlor trick, huh?” Braig calls, and both men stride toward each other, reuniting a few yards off from Elrena. 

Lea gives a measured nod, careful not to sound too eager, too impressed. “It can take me anywhere I want to go?”

“You’ve gotta be intentional about it, but yeah.” Braig nods, golden eye somehow brighter.  “You tell me exactly where, I’ll get you there.”

“Castle Courtyard, back of the crowd.”

“The back?” Braig jeers. “Kinda lame, isn’t it?”

“People see a hell portal and they start to talk, Braig.” Lea sets his hand on Braig’s upper arm, (he was right, solid muscle) and begins to steer him back toward the front door, toward Isa. “Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to cut in front of everyone. And they’ll be a hundred more in front if we walk there ourselves. I’m a little surprised you two aren’t out there already stealing candy from babies.”

He glances between Braig and Elrena. She’s comparing the length of the brush to a steel fire poker, and Braig muses that she’s going to use them to keep Flamesilocks in check.

“Too many germs, man,” Braig replies.

Elrena opts for the poker and looks up, ponytails bouncing. “Fine, let’s do it. I’m not going to get anything done with all of you around anyway.”

“Great!” Lea says, clapping his hands together, and it’s the most enthusiastic he’s sounded since arriving. “I’ll go get Isa.”

Elrena fumbles over the length of Braig’s coat, staggers, and barely catches herself. Braig grasps her forearm to steady her. “Isa?” she repeats.

Sure enough, Isa’s pushing his way inside before Lea reaches the door.

It swings shut easily. The metal spikes set in it long since evaporated like the weapon they came from, leaving behind a set of fist sized holes, resembling a belt. Those, Lea realizes, had made it all the easier for Isa to eavesdrop.

Isa looks wearier, Lea thinks, if that’s possible. He’s put his hair up in a ponytail, but his bookmark’s still tucked against the back cover, and his jaw is stiff with bottled anger.

Isa surveys the room, the dusk floating steadily toward him, the portal of darkness, open a little to Braig’s left, Elrena, held fast in Braig’s grip, just between him and Lea, and brandishing a fire poker.

He moves to stand behind Lea, snaking an arm around his shoulder and letting his fingers trail down the curve of his bicep.

 _Careful, Isa._ A tickled sneer takes over the majority of Braig’s face, elongating his scar. _All that jealousy’s turning your eyes almost as green as Lea’s._

“Babe,” Isa whispers sharply, lips nearly touching Lea’s ear. “Time’s up.”

“Maybe you’re right.” It occurs to Lea that Isa is always right. He’s whittled away a good hour of their morning and nearly gotten them killed for his trouble. Isa is exhausted and pissed at him.

And now on top of it, he has a beef with an unpredictable fugitive and a renewed obligation to his friendship with a bitchy blonde witch. “Let’s get out of here?” Lea replies apologetically, tilting his head up to look at Isa.

Braig snaps his fingers. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Lea’s eyes widen, realizing what he’s just said. What it had sounded like in the context of their previous conversation. “Wait…”

The air around Isa and Lea darkens, cools, blackens, freezes. Dread and regret pulse in the pit of Lea’s stomach. The portal of darkness reopens around them, sucking them in like a beast taking its first breath of air.

Isa and Lea disappear.

The portal pulses and gleams for another moment and Elrena starts towards it, stops herself, muttering, sputtering. “Those two, they’re still…” She looks to Braig an accusation written in her violently green eyes, because he knows. _Of course he knows._

“Best friends.”

“God fucking damnit.” She strikes his shoulder with blunt end of the poker, not hard enough to do any real damage. “Isa won’t let him anywhere near me. _Best fucking friends._ Who does that? Who can stand another person for that long?”

Braig laughs outright and takes the poker from her, proceeding with her unspoken plan to bar entry through the front door. “Touching,” he pops off another portal to the castle courtyard, this one just a half inch behind her, saluting as she vanishes, “ain’t it?”


	3. Godot

The portal deposits Isa and Lea, shivering and disoriented into the center of a topiary prison. Immaculately manicured eight foot shrubbery encircles the small patch of pavement stones beneath their boots on all sides.  

“Where…?” Lea murmurs, thumb to temple, glancing frantically from the walls of green to the gray sky. He inhales, the air so fresh after the staleness of the void that he has to push off the desire to lay back on the cobblestones, unseen, and watch the clouds pass him by.  

Outside an orchestra of voices pounds, one on top of the other and indistinguishable as grains of sand.

“The courtyard,” Isa supplies, after listening a moment, disoriented enough that he doesn’t suppress a marveled grin. “You did it.”

“Holy shit,” Lea whispers it under his breath. “My short cut worked.”  

Isa’s brain sorts itself out enough that his smile fades. “Well,” Isa turns away from him to press his ear nearer to the topiary leaves, trying to distinguish where the crowd is, how to exit least conspicuously, “there’s a first time for everything.”

“Hey.” Isa feels a hand on his shoulder, Lea gazing at him, expression a little helpless, hair a little flat, like the Monday afternoon he had shown up on Isa’s new apartment building’s porch steps, rivets of rain trailing down his face, drenched to the bone, seeking shelter from an unexpected downpour.

He had known perfectly well that they had agreed, not a month before, only to meet up at Lea’s place and only after dark, away from prying eyes and loose tongues. And he had come knocking anyway.

“I’m an idiot, you know?” Lea rakes a hand through his hair, a gesture reserved for when he’s at a loss.

Isa usually finds this quirk—any sign from Lea of his inner turmoil, the depth beneath the confident facade—irresistibly adorable, sometimes downright sexy, but today Isa just feels cold.

“The fuck, Lea?” Isa can’t do more than whisper it, eyes shutting, the anger cutting up his face into harsher angles. “Is that all you have to say for yourself? I thought Braig was going to eviscerate you.”

 _Me?_ Lea stills, shivers a little—a remaining chill from the portal, maybe. _What about_ you?

“I kind of thought so too.” Lea’s gaze turns skyward, words contemplative, and pockets both hands. “Which would have really sucked. I always kinda thought I’d die a hero.”

 _There it is._ Angry words freeze on Isa’s tongue and smolder there unsaid. Fresh pain tightens Isa’s chest until the air is all but gone. _Dying, and Lea had been standing there thinking he wasn’t doing it well enough._

His next breath is unsteady, but his voice is not. “I’d rather you refrained from dying at all.”

Isa’s words are curt and Lea’s not sure he’s allowed to smile or move closer, and usually he would do both anyway, because Isa is his and he is Isa’s, and any space between them is no more than an illusion, a trick of the light.

But this morning he doesn’t. Lea’s lip curls only slightly, his thumb pressing just faintly as he releases Isa’s shoulder.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Lea replies to the clouds.

Isa was planning to stay mad for the next year and a half at least, but the longer he considers Lea’s eyes in their silent plea to the heavens, their intensity amplified by the dark liner, their green deepened by the surrounding pillars of leaves, the more vibrant the maroon pulse of the arrowgun in his mind until he feels it could blind him.

Lea plants his feet and braces himself for the verbal onslaught. No sense in self-defense. He figures he deserves it— to be engulfed by a whirlwind of outrage until he crumples up.

Lea hadn’t known about Braig, but he should have. _Should have known something was up, should have known something would go wrong. (When doesn’t it?)_

 _Should have known_ better _._

_Guess idiot doesn’t really begin to cover it._

Isa takes a slow breath, grits his teeth, and lunges at Lea. The air slips from Lea’s lungs on impact and he tries to dig his heels in, but they slide against the stone. He may be strong now, but Isa has always been stronger. They have been sparring since childhood, so Lea knows that much without thinking.

Lea’s jaw locks, his head turns (protect the face), and he waits to collide with the ground.

Instead Isa’s generously muscled arms wrap across his back, the corner of the book in his hand lightly jabbing between Lea’s ribs. Isa settles his face into the bone of Lea’s shoulder, mumbling, and Lea can feel the words warm his neck, “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

 _Is this my Isa?_ Lea’s body remains tense, long fingers half bent, raised in surrender. _My reserved, dignified, prissy Isa?_ After a moment, Lea’s own arms wrap Isa’s neck, eyes closing, fingers curling into the starch blazer across his shoulders. Lea exhales slowly.

Isa sees another flash of Lea on the doorstep, wet strands of hair pasted to his face, liner running in single drips like charcoal tears of laughter. “You can’t stay,” Isa had said, shutting the door behind him. Sternness slipping as Lea peeled off his shirt, his bare chest, scarred on one side, still glossy with rain that would taste like salt and flower petals.

Lea’s lips had curled through another shiver. “Is that right?”

Isa had forgiven him then too.

Now Lea presses his lips into Isa’s hair. _Is that right?_ Another kiss, an inch away—some kind of lavender soap. “I’m glad you’re okay, too.”

They stand for a long moment, pressed together, content to just breathe in their interwoven scent of gray smoke and clear, cold water.

“They will be following us won’t they?”  Isa says, lips dampening the skin just under Lea’s ear lobe.

“Mm, probably, yeah.” Lea’s eyes remain shut, his muscles still. He doesn’t want to think about Braig and Elrena right now. _Ever, really, but that’s probably a bit ambitious._

“Then we should get moving.” Isa lets his arms slip down Lea’s back, fingers trailing reluctantly down his spine. “They can’t make as much of a scene in the crowd.”

Isa leans back his head to meet Lea’s eyes, only to find them stubbornly shut, lashes a translucent pink, wingtips sharp, flawless. And there’s something so inadvertently sexy in that rare second of vulnerability in his lion of a companion that Isa's breath catches. _But now is really not the time._

“They’ll make a scene anywhere,” Lea objects.

Isa’s arms drop, and it’s just Lea holding on, wrapped around his neck like that worn yellow and gold striped scarf Lea’s so goddamn fond of. A birthday present from Isa when they were, like, ten.  “ _Lea_ …”

Lea can hear the scowl before he winks an eye open to witness it, but its not as angry as he expects. “Oh _alright…_ ”

They take another breath and untangle.

“We’ll have to think of something to tell people,” Isa continues, settling back onto his heels, releasing his mussed ponytail and smoothing the blue locks with a single graceful sweep. “A reason we’re together, late, hidden in the shrubbery…”

Lea’s smile widens on one side. “There’s always break up sex.”

“ _Besides_ break up sex.”

Lea scoffs teasingly, tosses his neck tie over his shoulder, and pushes the shoulder between two bushes.

“Lea, we have to tell them _something_ ,” Isa hisses, an amused slant to his eyebrows, snatching at his shirt tail, missing completely, as Lea wedges himself between the topiaries, which snap and snatch at his rumpled dress clothes.  

“I _told_ you so!” Lea sings before he’s fully emerged, the beginnings of an excuse he hasn’t bothered to formulate fully in his mind. His unnecessary volume tells Isa he’s going to have to adlib. Fortunately, this is hardly the first time.

Isa rolls his eyes at the dull gray clouds and plunges into the break in the foliage, a wayward branch immediately thwacking his abdomen.

“Yes. Yes. Fine,” Isa grumbles at half the volume, massaging his bruised spleen and rustling close behind. “You were half right.”

Today the courtyard beyond could easily be mistaken for the castle garden, a sheer explosion of colors and bright mingling perfumes. At least a hundred hopefuls stand with their parents and siblings clinging, most dressed to the nines, bright-eyed, despite the hour, and everyone shouting and chattering and nudging and bouncing up on tiptoe, all at once.

Isa and Lea don’t move for a second, taking it all in.

It seems more chaotic than they remember—from the few years they had gone with friends who had graduated, gone just to see it. But a quick glance to the castle doors--set atop a gray stone staircase, its banisters hung with pink and gold blooms on either side like blankets—explains why. Atop fifty steps the landing stretches barren, save for a pair of guards, Aeleus and a middle aged woman Lea doesn’t know as well, suggesting nothing of any importance has happened yet.

For the first time in recent memory, the castle is running behind.

The jubilant, restless crowd forms a semicircle around the grassy courtyard, leaving only the smallest of gaps for patches of flowers, trees, shrubs. More townspeople trickle to the edges by the second, mostly friends, family, and potential employers, as most of the grads had been more punctual.

Upon exiting, Lea and Isa find they scarcely have anywhere to go, as they maneuver into places with their backs pressed to the shrubbery. Prickly, but manageable, and at least they’re on the proper side.

Sure, the small grove marking the center of the courtyard and their new spots appears be closer to the crowd’s center than back, but Braig isn’t one to play by the rules, and frankly, they are grateful not to have found themselves in the king’s private dressing room or teetering off the ledge of a lofty stone parapet.

Elrena stands just in front of them, arms crossed, hellfire in her eyes. An unusually large gap stretches on either side of her as if her touch might sting. Isa figures it probably had. Although it could be that she had just arrived through a portal of darkness, much less subtly than they. Isa figures Braig’s aim must have been a few feet off the second time around. _Or perhaps he couldn’t resist showing off a bit._

A few other bystanders, bored of waiting, turn to watch the fresh commotion, already muttering at the sight of Lea and Isa together. They have been expecting this, seeing as they haven’t been together in public much recently, but it still stings a bit, like ripping off a bandage from a wound that hasn’t quite healed.  

“What were you two _doing_ for so long in there?” Elrena snaps, the surrounding aura of impatience and intrigue making her hostility seem more justified than usual. “I was beginning to think B. set you on the castle roof. Where is he?”

She stares for a second at the damage they’ve done the greenery, as if Braig might stumble out behind them, a curse on his lips and maybe a cigarette.

“Completely right,” Lea continues to Isa without missing a beat, as if no one is watching, nodding and brushing a twig from his sleeve.

“About what?” Elrena drawls, lightning writhing through her four foot spiral ponytails like live wires. Two or three people scurry to avoid them, stumbling into their neighbors, as she weaves around them to draw closer to the attractive but troublesome pair.

“Yes, Lea.” Isa, smoothing his shirt and blazer, offers just a glimmer of a smile as Lea searches the crowd for an answer.  “About _what?_ ”

“A…ah…” Finally Lea spies the gold chain poking through the collar of Elrena’s coat and recalls the _Thundara_ charm permanently fixed to it. Inspired, he raises his hand with a flourish, “...treasure chest! We were looking for a treasure chest.”

“Pshh.” Elrena reaches out and smacks Lea’s shoulder, aware this far-fetched explanation is not for her benefit.

“You,” someone from the crowd sputters, wide-eyed, grinning. He had been in one of Lea’s classes once, probably. “You found one? _Here_? But it’s been months…”

As on many worlds, every August 14, from dusk until dawn, all of Radiant Garden’s Guard and academy instructors spend the night setting up an elaborate treasure hunt. A hundred or so chests concealed across the kingdom. The hunt brags no clues or maps or rational explanation. Many have argued that this means it amounts to a quest for sheer dumb luck. Others that it promotes adventure and exploration of areas best kept off limits. Their objections serve no purpose. It’s a holiday, after all. A tradition. And kingdoms are quite fond of those.

A few tiny, obvious chests of candy or a few munny appease the ecstatic children, but a well-placed box with a worthwhile reward could go months, if not years without being found--inside magic or heaps of munny or, every so often, a particularly nasty-spirited Heartless that had gotten their first. Decorum demands the treasure taken is replaced with another item, so that the hunt may continue. If empty for several hours, the chests are enchanted to disappear.

“No,” Isa corrects pointedly, eager to end the charade and figure out what exactly is going on in the rest of the courtyard.

“But?” Lea prompts, shooing off Elrena’s hand as if it’s a gnat.

“We saw where one _used_ to be.” Isa’s eyes skim the tops of the crowd, alighting on familiar hairstyles and postures all around. He had meant to meet up with countless friends earlier, and absently wonders if they thought him waylaid by a hungry swarm of swaying Heartless Soldiers.

“So I was right.” Lea shrugs and grins, quick, white, and smug, as if to imply this is the natural order of the universe. “I said there was one there and there _was_.” His knuckles bump Isa in the shoulder. “You owe me a pint.”

Isa’s sigh of exasperation is not fake, and the onlookers turn away courteously, not wanting to let on their eagerness to eavesdrop on any impending feuds. “Great, I’ll deduct it from the keg you owe me.”

But perhaps Isa’s next sigh is a little too fond, because Elrena remains, lips in an uncertain pout, hands on hips.

Lea grins knowingly and waves her another step forward. “You waiting around just for us, Rena?”

Isa inclines his head in a cold greeting, wondering what her end game is, following them here. “Aren’t we special?”

“Hmph. Don’t get your boxers in a twist. There’s clearly nowhere else to go.” As she gestures to the walls of crowd, a nearby father directs his wandering toddler to the side of him furthest away from her. “B. dumped me here all on my lonesome and took off. So I guess you two are just going to have to entertain me until this snoozefest is over.”

“ _Right_.” Lea retains his lazy calm and Isa his cool frown. The skin of her neck lights up like carpet burn. “She couldn’t stay away,” Lea hums to Isa, whose face remains impassive as the gray sky.

“Why would I want to be stuck with you two losers?” she demands, nose rising, half turning away. “I mean, please. You’re not going to let me steal anything fun and your own families didn’t bother to show. If that’s not sad, I don’t know what is.” Her lip juts out in mock pity.

Attending the annual castle job placement posting, initially an informal proceeding, had over the years evolved into something of a family affair. A natural, sweet progression really, in the opinion of Lea’s inner romantic, the desperation to know the fate of your loved one the second that they do, to give celebration or solace as soon as humanly possible.

Missing this ceremony is a little worse than missing your child’s birthday and a little better than missing their wedding. Fortunately, Lea’s no stranger to buying his own damn cake.

The crowd around them noticeably quiets as if Lea’s father himself has stepped out of the shrubbery, smelling like a tavern floor, laughing enormously, stride slanted as if seasick. One eyelid stained purple and black, one hand wrapped loosely around the neck of a shattered bottle, lip slightly cut as if at one point he may have tried to drink it. None of which anyone would have noticed at first glance, because no one’s eyes could travel far past his startlingly red tresses, tamer and longer than genetics had gifted his only son. _The only one he got credited with, anyway._

But Lea’s thinking mostly about Isa’s parents, weary eyes in gaunt faces, carefully optimistic expressions, clothes made of patches and tucks and hems, when he takes a half step toward her and says, “Shut your mouth. Before I do it.”

Elrena sneers. “Try me.”

Isa sets a palm in the center of Lea’s chest to contain him, calm him maybe.

So Lea doesn’t push it.

 _She’s looking kind of pathetic, really._ _Pale and bird-boned, swallowed by a dark coat, swallowed by a massive crowd. Still shielding her feelings with narcissism and arrogance, like I don’t know better by now._

If things were different she would be wearing the shortest, most electrically colored dress in the place, blonde hair released from their ponytails into a yellow waterfall of spirals. She would be standing in the very front, waiting to see if her own name was on the list. Considering being her science marks, it might have even been there.

If she had never been kicked out, she would be situated not too far from Lea and the other grads with absentee parents (He doubts whatever blood relatives she has outside of the castle dungeons would have bothered to show, even if she _had_ had a real shot at royal employment.) elbowing him every five minutes to share a laugh at somebody’s expense and grinning childishly in spite of herself, tiny celebratory sparks flicking from her fingertips with every gesture.

 _This day is one massive reminder to her that she fucked up her future,_ Lea realizes, frown deepening. _No wonder she’d been planning to stay back at her shop—away from the grins and anticipation, the oncoming onslaught of rainbow confetti and music._

_I don’t blame her._

“They’re in good company,” Isa points out, tilting his head toward the quiet staircase, the bare, arched wooden double doors. “Ansem’s not dropped by either. At this rate, he’ll be later than Lea was this morning.”

“I wonder what the hold up is,” Lea mumbles, following Isa’s gaze. The guards remain stagnant as the stone fixtures beside them. The front of the crowd rustles and shifts—he can practically see their shoulders tensed—but no one dares break the line to investigate further.

“They don’t give a fuck if they’re wasting our time,” Elrena replies as if it’s obvious as the color of the suns, “that’s the hold up.”

Lea nods without realizing it. “Oh, I don’t know…” he mumbles, thoughtfully.

Isa glances down at the witch as if surprised she’s still here, with pale eyes so frigid she finds herself determined to light them with outrage, with pain, if only for a single glorious moment.

 _Ice queen_ , Lea’s south-side friends had taken to calling Isa in ninth grade, because he refused to associate with them, delinquent punks, spurned their small talk and human emotion, but _god_ was he pretty.  
  
_Shy._ Lea had always excused with a low chuckle beneath his cigarette. _You guys make him nervous, is all._  
  
But he never saw the way Isa narrowed his eyes at her, dismissed her, told her to back off, stay away _—_ after school, after an expulsion notice, a few hours before she spent her first night in a cell.  
  
_You’re not dragging him into this._ The alley wall outside Lea’s place _—_ _their_ place _—_ had been unforgiving against her back and the same cold eyes had held her there. _You’re not going in there._  
  
And she hadn’t.

 “So, Lea’s father’s on the barroom floor,” Elrena begins to tick off on her fingers, presently, “his mother’s mopping up the tequila he spilled on his way down the night before. They stopped procreating while they were ahead...”

Lea doesn’t so much as twitch. Living above a tavern his entire childhood, attending a school of preps and pricks, he’s as used to these jabs, as an old horse to spurs. _Although they are usually more drunken or pious in origin._

So she turns her condescending smile to Isa. She can see his teeth grit beneath the unmoving, stern line of his lips, and _there_ , an ember of heat in his cool glare. Her grin stretches. “Where are _yours_ , Isa?”

Isa shakes his head slightly, staring down at the wide-mouthed witch and wondering at her utter disregard for propriety, especially considering her own less than ideal situation. _Lea has clearly not been delivering his ‘nobodies stick together’ spiels to_ her _._  “I could ask you the same question.”

Lea’s eyes dart between them as he contemplates intervention.

“ _I’m_ already employed, dipshit.” _I’m not the one with the fucking diploma, dipshit._

She smirks to gloss over her personal failings, her displeasure evident in the golden sparks at her knuckles, and edges closer, the silver chain at her collarbone jangling, as she wedges herself a step between Isa and Lea, getting in Isa’s face, patting Lea’s chest.

“I wanna know why Mr. Most Likely to Succeed here doesn’t have a crowd of adoring fans.” She tilts her head one way then another and giggles. “No parents, no bratty siblings, no girlfriend.”

Isa makes a short, exasperated noise in the back of his throat. “Lea’s here.”

Her sharp, neat brows bounce. “Are you bragging about that?”

Lea leans back against the shrubbery, plucking off a leafy twig and twirling it between two fingers like a cigarette. “He’d better be.”

Elrena snorts. “Whatever, god, you two are, like, _painfully_ single. Lea, sweetie. When Ansem hires you and we all go get wasted to celebrate but mostly to forget how fucking boring all this standing around is, will you do me a favor?”

“Yes, Elrena?”

“Remind me to get you both laid.”

Lea howls like a wolf, but cuts himself off, because Isa looks momentarily stiff, as if he has a lightning rod where his spine should be and she just zapped it. Lea grabs Elrena’s wrist, spinning her toward him and away from this with a winning smile.

“‘When,’ huh?” Lea smirks, leaning toward her.

She rolls her eyes, busted. “Alright, smart ass, _if_.”

“‘We’?” is the part Isa finds more concerning.

“ _Right_ ,” Lea sings to her in an overly-familiar, lilting tone, “I’m sure _your_ love life is just _thriving_ with that friend of yours in the parlor gunning down anything with a pulse.” The end note is flatter, harsher, than he intends, and her cheeks pucker at the unfriendly shift, never mind that she had initiated it.

_Braig really rolled out the welcome mat for these two._

“Look, Lea,” she sets a bare hand on each of his cheeks, tone low, and enunciates carefully, because she’s not about to say it again, “I _told him_ to go easy if you stopped by, he just happens to be shit at following directions.” Her hands drop at his lack of a reaction, volume rising, “Why do you think I’m wearing this fucking straight jacket?” She tugs at the excess fabric near her rib cage, drawing it out double her size.

Light green slits peer down at her, and she can feel Isa looming at her back like an ice sculpture.

“What,” her fist knocks harmlessly against the center of Lea’s chest, “don’t you believe me?”

“I,” his eyebrows rise at the impact, a shock of agitated static energy. His eyes connect for a fraction with Isa’s, whose are wide and blue and uncertain, before dropping down to the indignant jade ones, “yeah, I believe you,” he answers, soft, almost apologetic.

Elrena steps back in surprise and Isa sighs audibly.

As the minutes tick by, the three settle into something akin to a companionable silence. Elrena starts to smoke, Isa to read, and Lea’s eyes scan the nearby nuclear families apprehensively as he plucks another twig from the shrub and twists it lazily between his fingers. _This is what it’s supposed to look like_. _The families of Ansem’s apprentices. Doting parents, tugging siblings. Optimistic, sober, downright cheery._ It triggers something in his thoughts, a remnant of their earlier conversation.  

Lea snaps a finger, and Isa and Elrena turn without hesitation. He regards Isa. “Thea’s coming by later isn’t she? With your mum after her early shift?”

Lea’s tongue spins fictions so easily, Isa’s unsure if the question is sincere or protective.

But Isa’s tired of lying. Elrena’s good opinion is _hardly_ worth the effort, and he sees no reason to mislead Lea, who can always tell. “My father’s out on the docks, fish-mongering, Thea’s back in the hospital, nothing serious this time, mother’s with her until her shift, the neighbor’s watching the twins. Rhea’s in class, or more likely, still asleep, since I’m not there to nag her.”

An indulgent side glance to Lea. _Thanks to_ _somebody’s influence._

“Just another Tuesday,” Lea observes. But only because it’s easier than asking about Thea in front of a gossip like Elrena.

“They don’t have time for this.”

Lea shakes his red mane, confusion furrowing his brows, “But I thought they would have wanted to _make_ time…”

Isa’s eyes dart to the side, away. “Well. I could hardly ask that of them.”

Lea presses a hand to his forehead, ruffles the wayward spikes there back. “You didn’t tell them, did you.” It’s not really a question.

It all crystallizes in Lea’s mind. Isa hasn’t told them about the postings this morning, that he had graduated third in his class, that the dean said Ansem’s Head Scientist, Even, had asked more about him than any other candidate.

Isa had been at breakfast this morning, sipping distractedly at some orange juice, nibbling toast, and one by one his family had asked, off-handedly on their way out the door, about his plans for the morning and over and over again he had just… not said anything.

_Afraid to get their hopes up. Waste their time. Why? Why with all his qualifications does he still think he’s not going to get this job?_

Lea’s mouth falls open a little, considering his own gloved hand, still raised in the air, stretching out his fingers slowly. “Oh.”

_Right. Me._

“Tell them?” Isa continues, softly skeptical, oblivious to his friend’s realization. “Should I have had to?”

The apprenticeship posting is one of the most talked about events of the year and he is one of the most talked about candidates. But his parents have always isolated themselves, devoted to their labor-intensive work, to keeping a clean house, to putting food on the table, to paying medical bills, to just getting by.

They didn’t have time for friends or meet-the-faculty programs or made-up social obligations, and Isa would be the last person on the planet to put up a fuss and demand that they make it.

_Even when he desperately deserves it._

“Besides,” Isa dislikes the way Lea’s pity brushes against his cheek, the way his fingertips might instead if they weren’t standing in a crowded courtyard, “all the excitement would be a bit too much for the little ones.”

Even Elrena’s eyebrows rise at this. There are swarms of small fries chasing each other through the crowd and holding their family’s hands and jumping up and down in doomed attempts to spot Ansem or his guard.

_Bullshit._

Lea shakes his head again. _How could I miss this?_ “Rhea knew.”

The eldest of Isa’s younger sisters, Rhea, with her pint-sized leather jacket and short, choppy black-tipped blue bob, goes out of her way to bump into Lea, an infamous badass, in the Radiant Academy hallways in front of all her little friends.

Lea always rewards them with a slow, knee-buckling smile or a clever remark, a wink, if he’s feeling particularly generous. It’s annoying really—he had tried to tell her to buzz off once, even—but there’s just enough Isa in her eyes that he hates to see her lips turn down.

Lea crosses his arms. “I told her at least six times.”

“Have you ever met a thirteen year old?” Isa smiles, thin, a little displeased, a little indulgent. “She’s allergic to familial quality time.” He gestures to a nearby toddler collapsed on the ground, dirt-smudged, pudgy cheeks held in her small hands. “And as far as standing around for a half hour, she doesn’t even like to wait for the tap water to warm-up.”

“Amen, little sister,” Elrena intones, stepping back again, assessing her fingernails and then reassessing the crowd as if in search of more interesting company. Really she’s wondering when their zillion friends will arrive to whisk them away to somewhere she can’t follow.

_And where the fuck is Braig?_

_He was right, what he said the other day. I have no business here._

_“She_ should have told your parents if _you_ were being so gosh darn secretive.”

“I told her not to worry about it,” Isa concludes, thinking Lea doesn’t have a right to look so irritated. Lea, who treats self-sacrifice like a hobby. “Truth be told, I’d rather spend today with you.” He turns his attention toward the castle doors, evasively, as if he might miss seeing one of the guards shift their weight or blink. “Just you.”

Lea’s heart skips. It’s not what Isa said—because _of course_ —so much as that he said it out loud, in public, _today_ , when they had agreed not to. In a careful, matter-of-fact, blink-and-you miss it tone that prevents Lea from even getting properly mad about it.

Lea’s tongue flicks across the roof of his mouth in pause. _But screw it. Screw everybody_. “How _romantic_ ,” he purrs, in a low rumble that make his usual sarcastic lilt sound like the voice of a stranger. His lips stretch and someone who knew him less well might have taken the pairing: that voice, that grin, as a cruel parody.

Elrena can’t hold back a cheap bark of laughter.

It unsettles Lea for a second. He clamps his mouth shut and takes a slow breath through his nose, flicking his eyes to Isa’s, saying it that way instead. _I love you too, babe._

Isa’s lip quirks to the side, a real smile, though he simultaneously affects his patent exaggerated eye roll, because they still have an audience of prolonged side glances, not to mention Elrena, her pert nose scrunching.

“What can I say? I can’t bear to be without you.” Isa deadpans, tone hollow. “Who else could have made me this late to something this important?”

“Yes, why _did_ you come together?” In the dramatic toss up of her hands, the little circle she struts in, Elrena fully misses the amusement in their gazes as they flicker together, and so do the rest of the onlookers, watching her gesture their way and spinning forward to preoccupy themselves. “ _Everyone_ says you two aren’t speaking to each other.”

Their eyes meet over her head, silently deciding how to play this off.

Lea’s green eyes catch the light, amusement flickering across his lips. “Isa, are we not speaking to each other?”

Isa’s crosses his arms and fans at his neck with his novel. “Absolutely not.”

Lea’s eyes widen and his mouth stretches sportingly. “Not even a little bit?”

Isa nods curtly, unable to contain another, smaller quirk of his lip. “Not a syllable.”

She tosses up her hands once more. “You know what I fucking mean.”  They stare down at her in unison, the same irritatingly blank expressions. “He moved out on you! Or you kicked him out. I mean, what happened?”

The book-fan in Isa’s hand stills. “What a rude question.”  
  
“Sweetheart,” Elrena leans in, “I’m a rude person.”  
  
“That’s putting it mildly.” Lea can only smirk at the tension between them, the zing of jealousy from Isa, _as if he has anything to worry about._  
  
“Well… are you?”  she demands, patience battered as her front door back at the magic shop, held in place by a fire poker.  
  
Lea mockingly mirrors her lean. Nose to nose with her and a tiny sound escapes Isa’s throat. “What do _you_ care?” Lea purrs to Elrena.  
  
Her expression stills, mouth slack, and, Isa’s gaze zeroes in, _is that a pink flush on her cheeks?_

_Good lord. How does Lea not see it?_

A sudden clap of music interrupts their conversation. Someone has cued the band to pick up, in hopes of entertaining the shuffling crowd. Isa and Lea hadn’t even noticed it, thick as the crowd is, off in the distance to their left, the wooden grandstand barely visible above the swarm clustered around it. The instruments spill an urgent, haunting beat, too many notes piling onto each other.

It’s too much for Elrena. All of it. The guys’ conspiratorial, yet uneasy stares, the sudden cacophony, her traitorous, burning cheekbones. _Mother-fucking Isa._ “Answer the goddamn question, Lea. _Are you fighting?_ ”  
  
“If we’re not we’re about to be,” Isa notes ominously, music swelling under his voice, and they follow his gaze to the approaching Heartless.

 _Dusk,_ Lea corrects to himself. Braig had called them Dusks.

“Someone should run for the Guard.” Isa scans the crowd for a uniform, but as he suspected, no one’s nearby. They would be stretched thin today. Positioned along the perimeter of the courtyard to cover maximum ground and shield the exits.

“Hang on.” Lea holds up a hand to pause him. “Braig says they’re harmless.” He lowers the hand as Isa raises his eyebrows. “Although, come to think of it, Braig also tried to impale us.”

They watch four Dusks slink their way out of the topiaries, walking their tipsy, pointed walk. The leaves stuck to them shift off of their shivering bodies and crunch beneath their light, uneven steps. The temperature plummets twenty degrees.

A sick feeling spreads from Lea’s throat to his stomach. “So maybe he’s not the best judge of character.”

Still they let the creatures pass them by. Unlike the Heartless, the Dusks move in utter silence, weaving through the distracted crowd as easily as water through a pile of stones.

“Where are they going?” Isa murmurs, fingers clenching. “And why can’t everyone see them?”

Lea’s reminded again of ghosts, though he doesn’t believe in them, floating with one mind toward a common destination. They realize, together, too late, that in this case, that destination is the moody toddler not more than ten yards in front of them. She sits, oblivious, still sulking in the dirt, mud scuffing her face, a dandelion behind her ear, and a blade of grass sticking out from her mouth.

The Dusks ever-so-carefully bend to lift her by her tiny, fur trimmed boots and wrists, and she makes a surprised, dumbstruck peep like duckling, toppling over. And then she stares into their eyeless faces, their zippered mouths, and as they whisper “Shhhhhhh,” she shrieks.

Her cry and her father’s echoing bellow split through the music like a sudden silence, and all eyes in the surrounding crowd tear from the empty stone steps and empty castle door, tear from the melancholy entertainers on the bandstand, to fall on the man and the girl and the new seven-foot species of monster intruding on their celebration.

 _Oh now they fucking see them._ Lea musses the hair at the nape of his neck in agitation, and then springs after Isa who has lunged himself forward, into the churning crowd, with nothing to defend himself but a hardback copy of _Paradise Lost_.

In no rush whatsoever, the Dusks begin to carry her off, picking their way around thrashing legs and swinging arms, toward the hedges they had sprung from.

“Hey!” They can scarcely pick Elrena’s voice out at first, amid other shouts, calls for help, for the Guard, for people to band together. _Don’t let them get away!_ “Aren’t we forgetting something, gentlemen?”

But already the circle around the girl is breaking, bystanders backing off, if not full on running away from the threat. It wasn’t an extraordinary thing to do. Most of the kingdom was unequipped to fight the monsters: unarmed, untrained, and unwilling.

But the crowd Lea and Isa push into is so thick, the Guard might not make it through. Not in time. And grads and other young adults from the front where Lea and Isa should be, the ones who _are_ trained, have begun to push forward to investigate, but they’re swimming upstream. They won’t make it in time either.

 _In time for what?_ Lea asks himself. _If Heartless consume hearts, what do Dusks do? Make the sun set red?_

And maybe they will eat her heart, but Lea senses something different about them than he does with the Heartless. Something more... _intentional_ , in their movements, their zippers flapping as if they might be _whispering_ to the girl. There’s something less bloodthirsty, more... _human._ He remembers the one sniffing at the skeleton, like it was looking for a friend.

And the creatures don’t seem to be hurting her any, gingerly toting her toward the alcove they had slipped out from. _But why?_

“Fuck Braig,” Isa hisses, as if in response, tripling the weight in Lea’s chest.

The old legends of the Keyblade Masters always told of villains with blackened souls ordering around armies of Heartless. _But those were just bedtime stories. And the Dusk at Elrena’s place was a quarter of the size of these. And it’s not uncommon for new Heartless to spring up all at once._

So why can’t Lea shake off the thought?

“I swear to the gods, if that wannabe pirate has something to do with this, I’ll drag him straight to gallows myself,” Lea mutters to the beat of his toes pounding through grass and cobblestones.

“What exactly are you two idiots planning to do?”

Isa and Lea halt, heels of their boots sinking into the mud and dirt. Electricity jolts up their arms and they both jump a bit, staring down at Elrena, chest heaving and pony tails still fluttering from her unexpected sprint after them.

“Smile at them?” She shakes out her hair, eyes piercing, tone unexpectedly dark,  “You take those things on alone, unarmed, and they’ll obliterate you.”

She clearly knows something they don’t, but every second they stand around prying it out of her is another second that little girl could get eaten alive.

Isa presses his lips to Lea’s ear, “Find out what she knows about stopping these things. I’ll see if I can keep them at bay until the guards arrive.”

“Right,” Lea manages through the heat trickling down his neck. He brushes past Isa toward Elrena, his head raised, look cutting, but Isa’s fingers pluck him back by the sleeve, and hold fast.

“And Lea?” Isa’s eyes are grounding, polished with some inner calm. In the distance the band ceases to play. “Be careful.”

Lea smirks and squeezes the slender, calloused hand on his arm with his free hand. “My middle name, Isa.”

As they split up, the girl’s father gives a terrible groan. He’s attempted to pry one of the Dusks off of her and it...did _something_ to him. A pulse of black maroon light, not light, exactly, absence of it, maybe, like the shimmer of a Shadow on the sidewalk. In an instant the man is on his back a few feet away, face contorted, clutching his arm, his mouth moving in soundless agony.

The girl herself, rocking to and fro with the Dusks’ uneven steps, has her mouth resolutely sealed, tears trailing from her cheeks to water the chrysanthemum blossoms below.


	4. Sweetheart

“So what’s going on, _partner?_ ” Fresh fury rises within Lea as he whirls on Elrena, who stands, unfazed, leaning back on one heel, as if detached from the chaos unfurling around them.

“C’mon, Lea. How the hell should I know?”

 ***          *          ***

Isa drops to his knees beside the abducted child’s wounded father and unhooks the earring dangling from his own left lobe. The silver-blue charm hanging there from a thin silver chain is actually a _Cura_ bead _—_ a gift from a skilled healer (his anxious mother, to be exact), presented to Isa on the day he moved out.

He can’t help but wish, just for a split second, that he had invited her to join him here this morning. She’s cool in a crisis, and she would know how to fix this crumpled man and his daughter.

All Isa can do is swing a sword.

_But that’s going to have to be enough._

“I’m going to do everything I can to help your daughter, sir.” Isa presses the bead into the man’s palm and watches it dissolve into his skin. Light begins to radiate from it in a slow yellow-green ripple, down his arm and through his torso. The man clears his throat as if he wants to say something, but all that comes out is a low hum.

Isa’s own father would have choked out something cliche. Something like, _Give ‘em hell, son._

Isa pushes back onto his feet and tears toward the Dusks and the stolen toddler, teeth clenched.

 ***          *          ***  

“I see one of those creepy crawlies chillin’ in your living room, and a mob of them _just so happens_ to follow us here?” Lea drags out the syllables to emphasize their absurdity, his palms spreading open.

Elrena’s eyes shift away and he catches her forearm in his long fingers. “Are you in on this?” His voice lowers out of habit as he steps closer, though in the scramble, no one’s really listening. “Is that it?”

The intensity of his gaze is hard to look away from. His face, she thinks, has no right to be so goddamn pretty in the pale yellow morning, stretched as it is in complete outrage, passing judgment on her silence. His brows rise higher, lips thinning to nothing.

“Seriously, Rena? I thought you were better than...” he gestures loosely toward the pound of someone hitting the ground beyond them, “ _this_ at least.”

_At least._

Somewhere beneath the pounding of her heart she considers how much prettier, _happier_ , his face would be if she could just tell him what he wants to hear and have it be even a little bit true. Or else tell him the truth, stained black and blue and red as it may be.

“No,” she blurts.  “ _No,_ Lea.” Elrena tosses back her head, pony tails lashing out and scoffs.

_But fuck that._

_Because this Lea, coloring inside the lines Lea—Isa’s Lea—would never accept it._

_The Ice Queen had made sure of that._

“Braig just pays the rent, okay?” She shakes her head quickly, tone hostile, because she shouldn’t have to be spelling it out for Lea like this. _He’s southside and he should_ know. “I got jack without him. So I don’t ask a whole lot of fucking questions. Especially not about his _illegal_ job and _illegal_ pets.”

_Dumbass._

He’s heard her talk like this, _yeah_ , but not to him. Not with this much bile, not accentuated by a bolt that buzzes through his bones on its way to the ground. Not lately. Lea drops her arm in recoil.

Her jade eyes take this in with a quick flicker. She yanks on a ponytail, frowns, and says more amenably, “Plausible deniability and all that shit.”

“Alright, alright,” he nods along, shaking out his hand to rid himself of the fried feeling and deciding to forgive it, because despite her reputation, she prefers sugar to vinegar. “But, c’mon, Rena,” he’s begging a bit, lower lip jutting out. There’s urgency in his eyes searching hers. “You have to know _something_.”

She scowls, eying the hedges where she last saw her wiry, old flatmate vanishing without her. “I know one thing for damn sure. Braig’s going to be out on the street if he put me in the middle of this bullshit _on purpose._ ”

  
***          *          ***

A woman slams to the ground at Isa’s feet. She’s not young, maybe a few years less than his mother, but considerably more athletic, and has a burgundy and turquoise scarf wrapping her dark hair. Her brown eyes blink rapidly and flicker shut. After that, she doesn’t do much more than twitch. His own skin feels like ice, the fine blue hairs on his arms rising. 

But the _Cura_ is gone and Isa yanks his gaze away. His stomach gives a violent twist in objection, like a wrung out towel.

Her rapier stands impossibly upright, blade in the dirt not four paces away, disturbing a bed of zinnias. Isa spots the Dusk the woman had managed to agitate enough that it dropped its hold on the child’s ankle to dispatch her.

The Dusk glances around for its peers, nods to itself, and leisurely ambles to rejoin them. The rest clump together, shuffling along, their progress only slightly impeded by the dodging crowd and a handful of brave but ill-equipped townsfolk.

Isa lets out a sharp cry and lunges for the rapier, simultaneously flinging himself into the space between the Dusk and its phantasmagorical brethren. He thinks he can probably get to the sword before the Dusk gets to him. But he wouldn’t bet Munny on it.

 ***          *          ***  

In the distance, Lea can hear the clang of metal and grunts muffled by gritted teeth. His muscles itch to spring toward it, to put himself between the monsters and the crowd. To put all his training to some kind of use. “Don’t suppose you know how to call them off?”

“Nasty little shits won’t listen to anybody but Braig.”

Lea hisses, shaking his head, “And I let him go. I brought him here.”

Elrena masks a smirk. _Let him. So cocky._  

“Fuck me,” he mutters, raking fingers through his hair, tossing a glance behind him, just a quick one, to ensure Isa is upright. “I knew I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning.”

Elrena’s lips fold in. _This is_ so _not the context I wanted to hear those words in._

Elrena almost says as much, but he’s practically shaking, expression taut, mood blackening by the second, and all of Radiant Garden is shoving past them, knocking them in the ribs and elbows. So she offers up a half shrug, raises an open palm, and presses closer to hiss, “Those _things_ have minds of their own, Lea. What would Braig want with some kid?”

“Ransom? Human sacrifice? Always wanted to be a granddad? Does it _look_ like I have time to play detective?” he gestures behind him again, nearly whacking a passerby in the face, and someone obligingly screams.

Both of them wince. He hates himself a bit for feeling relieved that it doesn’t sound like Isa.

His joking tone slips off, revealing that raw, serious thrum she knows he typically reserves for his best friend, in the rare moments when he’s not attempting to get a rise or a blush out of him.

“Just tell me how we get rid of the Dusks, and I will get off your case. For good, if you want.”

She hesitates. _Coming from a future Guard, that means something._

Unfortunately for Lea, she has Braig to think about.

“I don’t _know_ ,” she bites off the syllables emphatically, pauses to shoot a death glare at someone who nearly plowed her over, “I’ve never actually been stupid enough to try it.”

 _Well._ Knuckles clenching, Lea turns on his heel. _Then this has been a truly spectacular waste of time._

“Me, I’d just electrocute them.” She flicks him in the arm as he goes, and her touch gives him a tiny visible shock, fine white light like thread. Her lips twitch, almost a smile. “But I’m funny that way.”

“That’s more like it.” He turns halfway back around, just enough to swing his arm playfully through hers, buried as it is in a swathe of thick yet cool black fabric, and snaps a momentary grin. “Let’s go, partner.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she yanks back, friction as her muscles strain free from his, tensing as that grin dies. The spirals in her ponytails tighten under a jolt of electric current. “I don’t _think_ so.”

He blinks at her as she brushes a stray petal from her shoulder. She may as well be sitting at a picnic, arguing with a bumblebee. _Fuck, Rena. What do I have to do? Bribe you?_

He drops his outstretched arm, thinking of how she had clung to it earlier, his jaw is rigid, working through words too cruel to say by Guard standards. His arms bar his chest.

She frowns. _As if I haven’t had enough of his hypocritical disapproval for one morning._

“We’re talking about a teensy little girl, and you want to just stand here and let them,” Lea cocks his head and grimaces, recalling her earlier word choice. He twirls a finger.  “Ya know.”

 _Obliterate_.

“The Guard is on its way.”

And that stings both of them to hear her say.

He glances around through the bodies tousling them this way and that, pushing and snatching, like standing amid rough waves. Still not a glimmer of royal blue. “Yeah, I can see that.”

“If they catch me putting on a fucking firework show of unlicensed magic, with all my priors, I’ll lose everything I’ve got.”

His green eyes trace the inexplicable sincerity drawn in features people would describe as cute if Elrena wouldn’t murder them for it.

“Is that what you want, Lea?”

 _And to think you used to want to_ be _them._

And Elrena’s grateful she got the Fira back from Lea because it could set the entire willow tree above him up in a blaze, the way he explodes. “Are you fucking kidding me? A baby, Elrena. The Dusks nabbed a baby, and that baby’s about to lose everything _she’s_ got because you’re playing house with a lunatic. So you better reevaluate your goddamn priorities.” His steps smack against the pavement as he turns away, and once again she catches his sleeve.

“Here, white knight.” He glances back to catch Elrena rolling her eyes and reaching two fingers into her breast pocket. The one where Braig keeps his cigarettes. “Quit your bitching.”

Actual bile rises in Lea’s throat, but she’s still holding fast to his arm, long, pointed, painted nails digging in. He hesitates a second longer, held by a memory leaning against an academy wall, smoking beside her, on a particularly bad day, neither of them so much as glancing at the other as they watched the other students heading home, their smiles pasted to their faces, their shoes polished to a sheen.

She had something horrible to say about every one of them and he had contemplatively blown out a ring of smoke, before asking her why she kept showing up to the academy if she hated everybody in it so goddamn much.

 

 _“This is what I’ve got. I don’t do this, I don’t get a legal job, I’m worthless. If I don’t do this I’m never going to be fucking, I don’t know…”_  

_“Somebody?”_

_“Yeah,” she exhaled slowly, “And the gods know my family has enough nobodies, you know?”_

_“Yeah, I do.”_

_“And it might be a nice change. Me, doing something really fucking heroic.”_

_“That I’d like to see.”_

 

He had cast her a brief, ghost smile and it returns now, as she plucks the _Fira_ stone from her pocket and tosses it his way. He snatches it midair, and the temperature of his touch rises ten degrees through the thin white fabric of his button down. 

“Keep it.”

***          *          ***

The Dusk reaches Isa, pausing to tilt his head, a gesture which reminds him absurdly of Lea. The way he sometimes stops speaking mid- conversation, caught up in a sidelong glance, considering the way the light catches the angles of Isa’s face in profile. Lea leaning in to kiss his cheekbone or his jaw.

The Dusk’s eyeless assessment gives Isa not quite enough time to crouch and wrap his long, callused fingers around the hilt of the rapier before the creature whips out its arm like a tendril, pulsing red-violet darkness in waves that make his vision turn white and blurs the edges of his thoughts like a forgotten intention.

Well-served by a decade of muscle memory, Isa’s arm raises itself in defense and in that hand the book, which the Dusk strikes instead of Isa’s face. The singe of smoke lights under Isa’s nose as the Dusk draws back. A hole sweeps clean through the tome from cover to cover. Heat scorches Isa’s bare palm, but he doesn’t think about it, executing a clean roll to the side and springing to his feet between the monster and its companions and the girl.

Isa flexes the rapier, a lighter weight than he’s used to, but better than a hardback, he supposes, somewhere in the back of his mind. And then there isn’t time to think, as the Dusk extends another whip of a limb toward Isa’s side. He takes a deep breath, sends up a silent prayer that Lea is faring better, and lunges.

Isa feels the seams of the sleeves in his Radiant Academy blazer ripping out as his blade slashes through the Dusk’s skin, a consistency like cloth. He slices down through a substance light as air, and then out the other side. Its pointed, black-striped arm floats to the ground at a slow drift like a paper boat.

Bystanders point to his small triumph and murmur, but Isa scarcely processes it _—_ _the first point doesn’t win a duel_. He draws back the sword again, as the Dusk releases a loud hiss and then whispers, _“Isssssa.”_

Isa’s endured all manner of trash talk and distraction from Lea alone whilst sparring _—_ not to mention from his classmates, irritated by the fruits of his years of long hours of unflagging practice. Decorum always went out the window once they were dealt a few scratches and bruises, their eyes lit green with envy.

So his weapon strikes true though his brain freezes, grappling with the impossible syllables. His rapier strikes through the Dusks’ remaining arm, and it cries in agony.

This alone stops his feet. Adrenaline vibrates his heart like a bell. That’s a sound he’s never heard from anything he’s fought, classmate or Heartless.

 _“Desist,”_ it whispers, then, swaying. Its feet move it closer though a more or a less intelligent creature, once disarmed, would have scampered away. Isa knows no one else can hear it _—_ would believe it. Maybe the thing did strike his head and he’s lying in the dirt hallucinating the wise echoes of its speech, _“Embrace your destiny, child of the moon, son of the light.”_

_What the fuck?_

The chills wrap his spine like climbing ivy, and he plunges his blade into the center of the Dusk’s torso. His blazer separates, sleeves from shoulders, with the force of the movement. His eyes fix on the insignia branded on the Dusk’s serpentine forehead.

It’s a symbol he’s never seen before, despite his years of devoted study, like the strange characters inscribed on the illustrations in the storybook of the Keyblade Wielders. He and Lea had poured over it as children, in the light of the oil lamps and the moon, one quilt wrapped across their narrow shoulders. The captivating, otherworldly legends had made bearable the nights Lea had been tossed or snuck out of his own home, more often than not with some kind of bruise blooming across his pale skin. Blue-violet. Like a forget-me-not.

Isa considers the cool confidence with which his friend had evaded all Isa’s mothers questions, the tears coming, soundless, only when the lights went out and it was just Isa beside him. They couldn’t have been older than seven then.

Abruptly, the blade in Isa’s grip warms and burns pink, and he’s forced to release it. Fire spreads from the Dusk’s entry wound to engulf the strange being in a fiery pillar. Screaming in anguish, the Dusk seems to shatter into fine black shards of glass, and these into a fine sand that fades on the breath of the spring wind.

The display leaves a void of empty air, the smell of toasting marshmallows, and an overwhelming feeling of absence. Ironically, unlike the Heartless, the Dusk leaves behind no glowing, pulsing pink thing to float up and away. No light springs from the creature’s dark depths.

It’s just gone.

***          *          ***

“Hey! You don’t have a license either, dumbass! If the Guard catch you doing magic you can kiss your invitation to join them good-bye!”

If Lea heard Elrena’s shouting after him, he opted not to acknowledge it.

She admires the bravery in that.

_Really fucking stupid._

_But brave._

Elrena sets herself back where Braig had dropped her off, against the circle of manicured hedges, out of the way of the fleeing citizens of Radiant Garden and the Dusks that could knock a grown man off his feet with the slightest touch—a safe distance away from any crimes or heroics committed but close enough that she can still survey the fallout.

More importantly, she can still call down a bolt of lightning from the heavens to save Lea’s flat ass if it comes down to that.

 _I shouldn’t_ , she knows, _but I would._

Elrena watches Isa’s gaze drop from the Dusk that had just charred, blackened, and fizzled up like a spent ember to see Lea, standing beside him. Lea’s impossibly long and skinny legs and torso give way to arms and shoulders gleaming with tongues of flame, more torch than man.

And she’s glad she’s too far away to hear what they say, because she’s sure now—after watching Lea sprint to Isa’s side instead of toward the other monsters—that despite the circumstances, it would be disgustingly cute, like a mouthful of sugar mints. Enough to choke on.

Anyway, they don’t waste a lot of time with that because there are still three Dusks left, _and they’re so goddamn fucking heroic these days._

But her stomach twists anyway. _The little girl. It’s a bit much, even for..._

“Hey sweetheart.”

“Braig.”

Elrena has become so accustomed to Braig sneaking up on her that she manages to keep both feet on the ground this time. She glances sideways. His hood is up, masking his face in shadow, but she catches a glimmer of his gold iris. “Get the fuck off of me.”

“Okay.” He shrugs and lifts his right elbow where he’s propped it on her left shoulder like she’s asked for something unreasonable.

He follows her gaze to the battle. The Guard have begun to arrive on the peripheral of the crowd, but it’s unclear if they’re really needed. Isa’s snagged a sword and is slashing at the first of Braig’s three remaining Dusks. He’s passed off some kind of book to Lea, who in one fluid motion, lights it on fire and whips it through the air like a chakram or a frisbee, setting the other two Dusks ablaze with a triumphant laugh.

“What, did Radiant Garden start offering Guards an elective in elemental magic when I left?” Braig brows rise, though she can’t see them. He’s genuinely impressed with the light show. What he had seen Lea do at Elrena’s place had been child’s play in comparison.

 **Perhaps, should he join us, he would serve a greater purpose than your amusement,** Xehanort suggests in Braig’s head, voice gravelly yet regal, articulate yet sinister.

 _Maybe so,_ Braig replies, and then frowns. _You’re a regular chatterbox today, Gramps._

Magic is a touchy subject in Radiant Garden. A tear rent in the fabric of an otherwise orderly society. First off, not everyone can do it. No matter how many hours of practice put in, some students can’t light a spark. Not blessed by the gods, not in their DNA, not raised properly, not trying hard enough… Even the most wizened Academy professors can only conjecture as to why.

Even among those who can do magic, a natural affinity for a certain element is rare. Without an affinity, a practitioner will never rise far above the subpar. Those with an affinity need less training, their skills rising and ebbing with their emotions, their self-control. Well-taught, left unchecked, they could become unfathomably and uncontrollably strong.

This alone has the potential to create a dichotomy of power like nothing the city has ever seen. So the kingdom keeps a firm grip on magicians’ reins: the teaching of spells, the distributions of charms and potions.

Not to say magic is forbidden. Far from it. Common magic, approved for everyday use by anybody, runs rampant despite its varying degrees of authenticity. Licensed magic is performed by Masters, if you can shell out enough Jewels or limbs, and of course, the black market _—_ street magic _—_ flourishes in between Guard crack downs.

Magicians, witches, wizards, sorcerers, those were all street terms but _Masters_...

At Radiant Academy, only a handful of students with impeccably clean records, advanced marks, and mature, sparkling personalities even have the opportunity to learn advanced level magic, and most of them simply can’t. The truly gifted might have the opportunity to work under the wing of a Master. Elrena almost had, before she had Fucked Shit Up.

Even so, the exams are said to be incomprehensible, the trials arduous, the filing fees exorbitant, the paperwork atrocious.

But the pay-out is high. It’s said Ansem prefers all his apprentices to have some kind of affinity, untapped or not.

However, teaching magic to Guards in training, some of the physically strongest specimens in the kingdom, and some of the most volatile, has never exactly been on the _Captain’s_ to-do list. Not when there were parries to be perfected and sprints to be run.

But magic is like a whispering voice in the dark. It calls you and you find it. Whether you want to, whether you’re allowed to, whether you know what it is—or not.

Elrena had begun practicing with her parents at age five, and they had gotten arrested for it.

_Well—Among other things._

It only strengthened her drive. She would learn from friends, street magicians, books, and what she couldn’t be taught, she taught herself. _And Lea…_

 _Well, that hadn’t turned into a_ total _disaster. It keeps him dropping by._

Elrena smirks at Braig’s suggestion, which he is well aware is ridiculous. “More like Lea and I _elected_ to skip fifth period every Friday and borrow some equipment from the advanced science and sorcery lab.

He nods and she can sense smugness though it’s not present on his face, as he watches another Dusk erupt into shards like volcanic glass. “Wonder whose idea _that_ was.”

“Well, it would have been really fucking boring by myself.” _She’s so whiny when she’s defending herself,_ he notes for the millionth time. “And it’s not like he took a lot of persuading.”

“Oh?” He gives her the side eye again.

“Not after I offered him lessons.”

“Ah.” Cackling tumbles from the hood, and Braig leans back for support, rustling the leaves of the shrubs. “I bet he aced the oral exam.”

Her lips pucker, eyes narrowing. “We didn’t get that far.”

They watch Isa and Lea struggle to sidestep the second to last Dusk. It’s protecting the third, which is cradling the girl on its own now, as it soldiers on toward Braig, despite the flames caressing its back. Lea and Isa exchange a long look and then lunge in unison.

“Well, now,” the chuckling softens, sobers, “there’s a shocker.”

The Guard is pressing in and Arleen yanks her hood up under the pretense of avoiding _their_ gazes.

“Because it’s so fucking impossible for you to picture.”

He glances down to inspect Elrena, searches her shaded expression, shrugs a bit. “You’re not Isa.”

“Are you saying I’m too _trashy_ for Lea?”

_He doesn’t own a second pair of boots, and his father could drink a brewery dry._

“That is completely…” Braig’s hood shakes back and forth, tongue stretching, “off topic.” His spine straightens, eye rising to gauge the assent of the sun. “Look, I’d love to spell it all out for you, blondie, but I don’t have _that_ much time.”

Elrena stares hard at the shadow across his face, but can’t make out any kind of expression. “Go fuck yourself.”

“I don’t have time for that either.”

She pauses to press back the surprised laughter that bubbles into her mouth, and waits for Braig to elaborate on his plan. But he seems content to watch Isa and Lea try to blow up his monsters.

“So make it.”

He sighs and motions two fingers. A portal unfurls and another couple Dusks slink up behind the encroaching Guard.

“Not like…” she half-heartedly reaches out a hand to stop him, drops it. “Shit, Braig. I don’t need _deaths_ on my conscience.”

He waves this notion off with a dismissive slash of the hand and rests his arm against her shoulder again. “You gotta admit, years of magic lessons and no…” he pauses, snaps his fingers, “sparks?  Lea’s just not that into you. And the sooner you wrap your pretty little head around that, the sooner you can focus on more important things, like _us_.”

The older man’s hardly serious. (Not any more, at any rate.) Though the words are unusually slow and smooth, overly sweet. _Like butterscotch_. It’s his way of comforting her. The only way he knows how. _Flattery_. His strong fingertips dripping down her shoulder, heavy through the coat.

“Years?” she snorts, relaxing into his massage, mumbling, “It wasn’t even months.”

Braig gestures his free hand vaguely as Lea coaxes a plume of fire from where it’s caught Isa’s sleeve and directs it at one of the Dusks.

Elrena shakes her head insistently, as he thoughtlessly weaves the silver drawstring of her coat through his fingers. “We got busted half way through the semester. Lea wouldn’t have learned anything but he has an affinity for fire. You should see him with an _Aero_ charm.” He can hear the indulgence in her smile, though the hood shields it from his critical stare. “Guy can barely ruffle a paper.”

Elrena expects Braig to be impressed or concerned with this development, but he laughs again. Louder than he probably should considering they’re watching a battle from a short distance in suspicious black hoods.

Elrena bats at the hand hovering a careful half inch from the fabric of her coat. “What’s so fucking funny?”

Braig gives the drawstring a light tug, the massive hood tightening around her and then lets his arm drop. “I’m wondering how you didn’t get your ass kicked out sooner.”

Her drooping sleeves cross. “Isa wasn’t trying to get his precious bestie expelled, Braig.”

“ _Isa_ caught you?”

“Ice queen heard Lea was skipping class and followed us.” She pouts and his laughter deepens. She finds it unnerving, floating from the mouthless void below his hood.

He clutches at his sides with his gloves. “Oh _no_.” He wheezes. “What he do, glare at you?”

“Not at me. _I’ve_ never seen Lea look so fucking terrified in all my life. Isa led him away by the elbow and that dick barely spoke to me for weeks.” She shakes her head, teeth gritting. “Selfish bastard. He never even gave me a fucking chance to be a good thing for him.”

“Blue give you a chance to be good enough for Red?” Braig rolls his eye and his whole hood rotates with the motion. “I’ve got the eyepatch, but you’re fucking colorblind.”

She lifts a hand to swat at him again, harder, opens her jaw to form a retort, but all that comes out is a faint, “ _No_.”

In the field, not a few yards away Lea and Isa stand on either side of the last Dusk. Isa cues Lea, and then backs up, prepares to dive and catch the child when, if, the Dusk explodes. Lea spreads his arms, gives a battle cry. But instead of igniting, he pitches sideways.

Heady gray smoke wafts from paper white skin like a doused bonfire. Elrena and Braig can smell it from where they stand. It takes a minute for Elrena’s heart to resume beating.

“No,” she hisses again, a flash of lightning whips across the dove gray sky. The Guards gaze up at the crackling boom. One makes a gesture of prayer. Her fists and muscles clench in anticipation as she moves to spring forward, but Braig slides his arm in front of her, rigid, resolute.

And she halts.

“Ah, ah, ah. Wait.”

Isa screams, throaty, brutal as the lightning. He hurls himself, empty-handed toward the Dusk. It’s unclear to the bystanders whether it’s suicide or he thinks he can defeat the ghostly creature through sheer force of will.

A massive silver sword materializes in his outstretched palms. The weapon radiates white light that sears into the vision of the onlookers like a scar. The claymore’s tip is edged with a six-point star of powder blue spikes, and these extend outward as Isa plunges the weapon forward and pierces the back of the final Dusk, emerging through its chest—mere inches away from the toddler cradled in its arms.

 _Too close_ , Elrena can’t help but think, green eyes blinking, widening.

Isa drops back on his ass and the heels of his hands beside Lea, inert, and the sweetness of the grass, and the flower petals suffocate him. _Too fucking close,_ he thinks.

A cheer erupts. No one else seems to notice. They think that he conjured the weapon. They think that he took aim. Elrena knows better.

The Dusk disintegrates and Isa’s not there to catch the child. Her silence breaks into a sound like shattering glass. She plummets four feet and she would have smacked into the ground if she hadn’t landed in the outstretched arms of her father.

Isa’s charm had healed him, but clutching at the pale, cool arms of the red-head beside him, letting himself inhale the smoke, a stronger version of what Lea always smells like, remnants of firewood on a salty beach in mid-autumn. Isa’s not sure if he would make the same choice twice.

***          *          ***

“You sure there wasn’t some kinda elective?” Braig inquires turning away from the scene, the sword, stepping toward the circle of topiaries he had emerged from. His arm steers Elrena with him.

He’s joking again. Isa clearly had no idea what he was doing. The dive toward the Dusk had been suicide, the response of the magic locked deep in his bones a minor miracle.

  **Locks are no matter to me.** The depths of Braig’s mind echo with a single cold laugh from Xehanort. **You continue to serve me well.**

“Lea,” Elrena repeats as the Guard surrounds him and Isa. She and Braig can no longer see anything but a wall of navy uniforms, hilts, and armor. “I need to get to…”

An exasperated scoff rumbles deep in Braig’s throat. “ _Relax_ , would ya? You and I both know that kind of magic’ll knock the shit out of you, if you’re outta practice. Your soldier boy’s probably just taking a hard nap on the cold ground.”

_Yeah, unless he touched one of your cute little Dusks._

The lightning crackling through her bones and her long, curling ponytails quiets in one moment of resolve. “If he’s dead Braig, you’re going to join him.”

“Shame,” he says and she sees the darkness playing at his hands, a faint maroon flicker. “It’d be more romantic if you did.”

Nobody’s joking now. For a moment it seems the end of their wayward alliance, as they search each other’s postures for vulnerabilities. A guard happens to glance their way and they go still. The breeze swaying the excess fabric of their coats, rustling their drawstrings. He blinks slowly and turns back.

Braig takes a heavy, world-weary breath, an old man breath, as Elrena likes to think of them. “If you want to stay, then stay.” He shrugs, though she knows him and his agreement spells something far worse for her than an argument. “But I’m not taking back the graduation gift I brought you.”

He turns toward the grove within the topiaries and, ponytails straightening, fair hair on her neck on edge, she follows him inside.


	5. Salute

There are guards in the dirt. Five. Unmoving, bound at the wrists and ankles with strips of leather, eyes wide, blinks slow.

 _They can’t be._ But they are. _Awake_.

_So that’s what Braig’s been up to._

Braig, looking like a shadow of himself in his hooded coat, spreads his arms grandly. “Surprise.”

Elrena’s breath catches. She can hear the self-satisfied grin in the lilt of his voice. Grass presses thin red lines into the guards’ faces and ruffles in the air beneath their noses. Their eyes are glassy, reddened with the strain of fighting for control of their limbs. But it’s useless, the magic Braig has tapped into since his return to Radiant Garden is undeniably strong.

She should feel disgusted, maybe. Sickened by this playfully cruel gesture. _Lea would be._

But on the ground she sees the same uniforms that knocked over entire shelves raiding her shop after some bullshit tip off that nobody actually called in. She sees the uniform covering the arms that elbowed her in the ribs as she tried to stop the Guard from hauling off her parents when she was just north of eleven.

The uniforms that didn’t find someone else to look after her. That hauled her in for picking a few pockets to get by at 20. The uniforms that didn’t show up when Heartless almost burnt down her apartment, or when some thug tried to jump her on her way to the market two days ago.

The uniform beneath the eyes that gave her _that_ look when they passed her on the street. Isa’s look. The look you give dirt crusted on the side of your boot.

So Elrena sneers, and it’s watts brighter than Braig’s, though the uniforms had turned their backs on him too. _Him they had respected once._

“Oh, honey, you shouldn’t have.”

“Yeah, well,” Braig strolls around them, hands clasped behind his back, as if admiring his handiwork, a corporal inspecting his troops, “truth be told, I have places to be in the castle, and these numbskulls got in my way.”

“Why not just put them to _Sleep_?” She strides forward, crouching down to inspect an especially familiar man, lightning crackling in her palm as she cups his bearded cheek. “You’ve gone and _traumatized_ them.”

The guard’s eyes widen as his skin turns pink, red, beneath hers, but he doesn’t make a sound or move a muscle. Elrena giggles beneath her free hand, shakes out her ponytails as they curl, and glances back to Braig who’s watching her keenly.

“And,” Braig inclines his head, crosses his arms pointedly, “you’re _welcome_.”

She gives the guards another once over. They’re castle guards. She can tell from the pristine uniforms, the arrogant faces, varying shades but all pale from lack of sun. Three have their eyes fixed on Braig, two stare off listlessly, one has his eyes pressed firmly shut.

Her smile dims. “You’re not worried they’ll identify you?” She hadn’t been kidding when she told Lea she didn’t want to get caught.

“Why worry?” He stretches a hand out toward her, palm up. “You’ll shut ‘em up, won’t you, sunshine?”

_There’s always a catch with him._

“Of _course_.”

“Besides...” He turns away from her now. His gloved fingers lift to his chin, as if inspecting the trim of a certain shrub. “If everything goes to plan, it ain’t gonna matter what anyone has to say about ol’ Braig. I’ll be calling the shots.”

 _Right._ The plan. _The brilliant_ _plan. The plan nobody’s privy to but the voices in Braig’s head._

A portal blinks into existence, set against the topiary Braig had been scrutinizing.

“Now that the rest of the guard is out here, it’s time for me to get my ass back in there,” he says by way of explanation, taking a few steps toward the portal and then turning to look down at the thin, hooded figure that’s sidled up beside him.

She places a hand on his upper arm, always surprisingly solid, “You got a date with the throne room, B?”

“Open invitation,” he replies. She hears another twinge of a mocking smile.

Her eyes roll, and she smacks him lightly across the bicep. “ _That_ sounds like a good way to get myself chained up in a bad way.”

She thinks she hears a faint chuckle beneath the hood.

Braig leans toward her, reaching for something on the ground below, face so close to hers she can see his scar stretch and lips curl. “ _Or_ ,” his nose near touches hers, pressing the black cloth parcel he had retrieved from the ground to her chest, “you can stay here and moon over Red while he eyeball fucks Blue.”

Braig straightens and Elrena clutches the bundle tightly, though her mind sputters, running this last sentence on auto-repeat.

Braig fixes her with one final, long, faceless look. “It’s your call, sweetheart.” His coat billows as he turns away, wrist twitching to offer that familiar two-fingered salute. The salute of the guard. It’s always struck her as funny he’s kept it. “But the clock’s ticking.”

He steps into the portal to the castle, and though it flickers as he passes through, it remains open for her. But it won’t stay that way for long.

_Clock’s ticking._

Elrena unwraps the parcel and the outermost layer turns out to be a bath towel.

_Very funny, Braig._

Wrapped in the towel is one of her party dresses, neatly folded—strapless and black, with gold thread appliqué along the short hem. Inside this he’s wrapped a short black corset and a pair of underwear a little more substantial than a thong, but just a little.

_Fucking hilarious._

She could put the clothes on, rejoin those waiting for the apprenticeship announcements, pretend she belonged there, and no one would be the wiser.

_Guess it really is my call._

Elrena takes a deep breath and conjures _Sleep,_ waving her hand over each of the guards’ heads, sprinkling them with sparks of light, blue and gold like sand. Combined with the _Paralysis_ , it should be enough to make them forget the past ten minutes.

_If not the past day._

There will be no tying her to any of this. Not if she doesn’t follow Braig now.

She wonders if he’ll get caught, stopped, captured, worse. The idea puts a bitter taste against her tongue. He won’t turn her in, _but it’d be awfully hard to pay the rent._

_And Braig’s not one to ask for a hand in a place where he doesn’t want or need it._

_Then again, better broke than in prison. Or dead, for that matter, depending on what Braig’s plotting._

_And if he wanted me to go with him, maybe he should have been a little more goddamn_ transparent.

Elrena slips the undergarments on beneath her coat, her eyes fixed on the beckoning portal.

The darkness chills her stomach and her mind turns unconsciously to Lea, lying on the ground, his hair fanned out in the grass like that of the guards in front of her. Lea’s tresses would gleam redder against the green of the lawn. The image reminds her for a split second of spilt blood.

But her blood pressure has gone down, and she’s thinking more clearly.

_Braig’s probably right. Lea’s probably just unconscious after his firework display._

_Probably in Isa’s cold, yet capable hands._

_Isa._

_Who would have guessed that the icicle of a prick would be so grieved at Lea’s collapse? So devastated that he would hurl himself—and a kid—into mortal danger?_

_Who would have guessed that he could feel anything at all?_

_Fuck it._

_Probably’s not enough._

She unzips Braig’s coat and lets it drop around her ankles. Then she steps into the dress and steps toward the side of the circle nearest their makeshift entrance, walking across the back of the bearded guard whose face is blistered with the scorch of her hand. Braig had no way of knowing it, but this particular guard has screwed her over in more ways than one.

_Immunity, my ass._

Trumpets blare in the distance. Elrena halts, the guard’s back cracking beneath her bare feet.

_Sounds like Ansem’s finally ventured out of his palace to deal with us, common folk._

_That might put a wrench in Braig’s plans._

_Unless it’s not Ansem he’s looking for. But who else would be important enough to break into a castle for?_

Only one name comes to mind. The whisper of one, really. He had never told her who it was and she had never been ballsy or brainless enough to ask.

_Xehanort._

But Elrena figures old Ansem’s still lounging on his throne after all, because it’s the Captain of the Guard who gives the announcement. There’s no mistaking her good-spirited, ringing bellow.

“People of Radiant Garden! Hear ye a message from His Royal Majesty King Ansem.” The overall chatter of the crowd and the thump of footsteps instantly subsides.

“Firstly, Ansem’s heart is with all those wounded in the Heartless attack on this momentous day. He prays the gods grant you fortitude, renew your strength, and gift you an expedient recovery. His personal healers have been dispatched throughout the courtyard and will be providing free aid for all those in need of it.”

_Yada, yada, yada._

“Secondly, Ansem commends the graduates of Radiant Academy for their valiant and quick reactions in vanquishing the Heartless and saving countless lives, and thanks his Royal Guard as well for their rapid response.”

_Rapid? Please._

“Thirdly, regarding the proceedings of the morning, Ansem himself has a special announcement to deliver regarding employment in the castle. He will be arriving posthaste. Please take this time to find your loved ones and organize yourselves. Thank you.”

_You heard the lady, Rena._

There’s a groaning exhale from the guard’s mouth at the slight shift of Elrena’s feet.

Elrena scowls, hops off the man and toward Lea, halting at the voice of a young woman on the other side of the bushes.

It’s a familiar voice, enthused and agreeable, but it takes Elrena a moment to place it after the last few years.

“Mom!” it says.

“Calliope? Oh thank heavens!”

 _Calliope. The ninja. President of Radiant Academy’s graduating class._ A first rate fighter, she could knock nearly any classmate on their back in hand-to-hand in under five minutes.

Elrena imagines her embracing her mother. Petite but muscular, Calliope would still be sporting the same short lavender pixie cut and royal blue academy blazer and slacks she had when Elrena got booted.

“Are you hurt?” Calliope presses, and the concern sounds genuine enough.

“Nothing an afternoon at the spa won’t right,” Calliope’s mother confirms briskly, likely brushing nonexistent dirt from her skirt, “and you, my dear?”

Elrena has never met the woman but she has an elderly, snobbish voice, strikingly unlike her daughter’s, and it doesn’t take Elrena long to conjure a mental image of a lavender bob, a string of pearls and a puggish nose.

“Yes. Fine.”

“You’ve found your missing miscreants, I trust?” the mother continues to pry.

“My friends.”

Elrena rushes forward until she hits the hedge wall. They can only mean Isa and Lea. They were likely the only grads dumb enough to arrive late. That, and Isa is Calliope’s vice president.

_Rumor has it Lea’s been taking running bets on a date for Calliope and Isa’s wedding for the past three years._

_Gag._

_Of course the poor lamb can’t marry if she intends to join the Guard. But that would hardly stop Lea from poking fun at them for it. Not that Lea could marry either. Not that he’d ever shown any interest in it._

“Yes,” Calliope confirms, bemused, “in the thick of it, of course. Blasted bull-headed idiots.” She says this kindly, everything kindly. Elrena feels her nose crinkle with condescension, but she can’t force herself to move toward the portal or away from it. Not with news of Lea so close.

“And are they…?” Death appears to be too distasteful a subject for Calliope’s mother’s tongue.

“They’re surrounded by guards and the kingdom’s best medics, but,” Calliope’s voice breaks off.

Elrena finds her palms and cheek pressed to the pricking leaves of the hedges, her ears straining.

“I don’t know.”

Elrena snarls and pushes away from the shrubs stumbling backward, leaves drifting in her wake, across the hands of a guard or two.

 _Fuck Braig._ Fuck _him._

Once the Guard is clear Elrena will see to it _herself_ that the matchstick of a man is walking upright.

 _Surrounded…_ her brain objects, even as she crosses the circle toward a separate gap in the hedges that she could shove into an exit. She pauses at the head of the bearded castle sentry, crouching to pluck the coin purse from his belt, and on second thought, the standard issue rune dagger.

“Listen, Calliope.” The mother’s tone takes on a quiet urgency. “You _must_ speak to the Guard for me. They’ll listen to you.”

Elrena figures this is true enough. No one would blink twice at seeing Calliope’s name next to Lea’s on the list of new Royal Guards.

Tucking the blade down the side of her dress and pocketing the velvet sack of munny, Elrena prepares to shove her way out of the hedges, past the beckoning corridor of darkness.

“Mom? What is it?” The sharp turn to Calliope’s tone manages to convey both impatience and concern.

The older woman’s arms cross, revealing fingers bulky with rings. “I saw who was behind this whole bloody mess.”

This alone stops Elrena. Her ponytails fall straight and her skin feels clammy, cold. She can still smell ash through the aroma of rose buds.

“What do you mean? _Everyone_ saw the Heartless.”

“No.”

Elrena pictures the severity lining the mother’s face. Elrena’s own parents had never quite gotten that expression down, but the rest of their Southside neighborhood, a few streets over from Lea’s, more than made up for it.

 _So. That’s it then._ Someone had spotted Braig. They’ll start looking for him now. _My poor baby._

“It was _her,_ ” Calliope’s mother hisses. “That… witch woman. The storm.”

Unlike its owner, Calliope doesn’t have to cast about for the name. “Elrena.”

_Me?_

_The fuck?_

_But I didn’t even do anything!_

Elrena hisses to herself and stalks back over to Braig’s coat, snatching it back up and yanking it on as they speak, voices getting louder as their disagreement festers.

“But what was she doing here?” Calliope presses.

“ _That’s_ what I’m trying to tell you,” her mother sounds more hysteric by the second. “She must have conjured the Heartless!”

“I’ll admit it’s surprising.”  Calliope remains calm, contemplative, and while it’s difficult to tell where she got her patience from, it’s easy to see how she nabbed a spot as class representative. “This would have been her graduating class, if, you know, she had graduated.”

Elrena rolls her eyes and fights with Braig’s coat’s chunky silver zipper, trying to keep the swishes of fabric and muttered curses to a minimum, and avoid stepping on any more guards’ fingers or toes, ‘lest they involuntarily cry out. _What a pretty mess that would make._

“But...did you see her doing anything suspicious?”

“I felt it,” the mother corrects with conviction, “ _deep_ in my bones. _And_ she was with Isa and that no-account Southside red-head of his.”

_So, after all his heroics, Lea still gets shit for his street address. Of course he does._

“I assume you mean my good friend Lea?” Calliope has the grace to sound irritated, though the friendship is news to Elrena. “Huh,” she amends after another second of thought. “No wonder Isa was running late.”

Elrena smirks as she crosses toward the portal. The grass is damp in some places under her feet but she prefers not to know why.

“So you’re telling me Elrena was here with her _graduating_ friends, not doing _anything_ out of the ordinary, and you want me to set the guard on her?” Calliope repeats.

_Hold up, is this bitch defending me? Hell just froze._

“I am telling you Calliope,” the mother insists, “it’s no coincidence she’s showed up when those creatures did, and now she’s disappeared.”

The rebuttal is quick. “If she was with Isa and Lea, she’s probably off with the medics by now.”

_Don’t I fucking wish._

“And I think it was really damn brave of her to come here to support her friends,” Calliope continues, “all things considered. I don’t know if I could have done it.”

Elrena’s cheeks and eyes feel too warm, and she wishes she could chalk it up to the heavy, dragging coat in the rising heat of the day.

_Fuck Calliope too._

“Fine,” the mother’s hostility is that of someone turning away sharply, in the direction of a last resort, “if you won’t listen to me, I’ll find a guard who will.”

Elrena and Calliope both know that not all of the Guard would be as impartial in their assessment of the innocence of a known witch.

“Mom, don’t. I’ll…” Calliope pauses to assess her options and fume internally. _Maybe Isa_ , Calliope thinks, _had a point not inviting his folks._ “I’ll tell someone, okay? As soon as I check on Isa. You go find my father. See if he’s alright.”

Calliope’s hesitance tells Elrena maybe she’s in the clear after all, and she reaches down the back of her dress to give her corset strings a final tug before she sets off out of the hedge.

Elrena stops breathing. And it’s not the corset. It’s the interruption. A formal, affected, sharp tone, loud, curt, “Excuse me, Miss Calliope? You’re good friends with Isa, I believe?”

Elrena can picture him, broad shoulders, muscled, boxy build, square jaw, tan skin, black ropes of hair pulled off into a neat ponytail. He had joined her and Lea for drinks before, though the Guard were not technically allowed to indulge in alcohol.

“Dilan,” Calliope repeats, sounding just as dizzy as Elrena feels, hurriedly saluting, “Sir. I… Yes sir.”

“At ease, cadet.”

Elrena expects Dilan’s sizing Calliope up the way he does everyone. Ensuring they are worthy of his time. He must see something agreeable in the set of her shoulders because he continues, “Good, come see if you can talk sense into him.”

Elrena’s takes a sharp breath and shuts her eyes.

_If Isa needs sense talked into him then that means that Lea…_

“Right,” Calliope tells the senior guard, after a pause, evidently drawing a similar conclusion, and then she turns to her mother, says gently but firmly, “Mom, you should go.”

“ _After_ you tell him.”

“ _Mom_. Fine. Dilan. Sir. My mother saw Elrena here with Lea and Isa before the Heartless appeared.”

“And?” Dilan does not sound impressed, but then again, he never does.

Calliope’s mother must leave in a huff at this because she doesn’t interrupt again.

“And she thinks she might have had something to do with the attack.” Calliope adds with the quickness reluctance brings. “But there is no evidence—”

“Right.” Dilan pauses scanning the thickening crowd, motioning a young guard to his side. “You there. Tell all the Guard you can find that we’re looking for the storm witch. If you find her anywhere in the vicinity arrest her on sight. Bring her in for questioning. Seems she may have set some monsters loose.”

Elrena tosses up her hands. _Oh for fuck’s sake._

_Now there are guards waiting for me whether I follow Braig through the portal or not._

“No, she was here with her friends,” Calliope interrupts though it likely won’t endear her to her superior officer any. “With Lea. You know Lea.”

“Precisely.” Dilan’s brows scrunch, tone pointed, “I know Lea. He hasn’t associated with the likes of _her_ in quite some time.”

Lightning jolts Elrena’s bones and lights sparks through the ponytails trailing behind her. It burns beneath her fingertips, ready to lash the world.

_So this is how sweet Lea speaks of me to his friends._

_Then again everyone says he hates Isa too._

She takes a steadying breath, planning to fry something on exhale, but she holds off. For some reason the president chick is still pulling for her.

“But—You can’t _control_ the Heartless.”

Dilan chuckles without much humor, “They taught you that at the academy, did they? Take note, child. Magic can control _anything_. And those were no ordinary Heartless. Get yourself posted on the Guard and I shall tell you more. Now then. You go aid Isa, and I will find Elrena.”

“But _—_ ”

“I assure you,” his tone is knowing, accent melodic, but firm, unforgiving, “she will be treated fairly in accordance with her _previous crimes_ , Cadet Calliope.” He folds his hands behind his back and waits for her to disagree.

Elrena can tell Calliope’s cheeks are burning by the way she mutters, “Of course, sir.”

She can hear the brisk pound of his boots as he departs.

“Elrena,” Calliope mumbles, “wherever you are, I hope you’ve found the peace and closure you’re looking for. And I hope you can get the fuck out of here.”

She stalks off as well.

Elrena audibly chokes, and it takes her a few moments to compose herself. She glances from the hedge to the corridor of darkness. It’s thinning now, growing more transparent, flickering at the edges like black static.

_If I go out into the courtyard, I’ll be apprehended and interrogated before I can say ‘kiss it.’ But, if they don’t search the shrubbery, they might release me in time to help Lea._

_Of course, I could always electrocute the Guard and go straight to Lea. As if they could stop me. But then I’d be outnumbered, arrested, confined. And probably break a nail or two._

Or _, I can follow Braig. He doesn’t skimp and the payout might be worth it. More likely, just, outnumbered, arrested, confined. Or I’ll be run through with a sword. It’s anyone’s guess._

_Lea._

_Or Braig._

_Damned if I do, damned if I don’t._

_I just want to go the fuck home._

_And a bitch can’t help but wonder, would they do this shit for me?_

Teeth gritting, Elrena kneels to the ground, the lightning slipping out of her. She takes a breath, smelling the dirt beneath her fingers, then she steps up to the portal, and staring in its whirling, mesmerizing depths, she tries to remember what exactly Lea and Braig had said this morning.

_‘It can take me anywhere I want to go?’_

_‘You’ve gotta be intentional about it, but yeah. You tell me exactly where, I’ll get you there.’_

Elrena presses the coat tighter to her skin to protect herself from the darkness, salutes the guards she leaves bound on the ground, and lunges through.

Home. _Take me the fuck home._

* * *

Appearances be damned.

Isa has Lea’s neck in the crook of his elbow, Lea’s torso across his thighs. Isa has one hand pressed just above the faint flutter of Lea’s heart, and the other tangled in his hair.

“Lea, you reckless, angel-faced bastard,” he whispers, unnerved by the hoarseness of the sound and the lack of reaction as his fingers wind tighter, “where the hell do you think you’re going?”

He used to hold Lea every night, but even when the window panes of their flat were laced with ice crystals, Lea’s skin has never felt so cold.

The healer works around Isa.

He can’t bear to watch her, but he also can’t bear not to. He fixes his eyes on Lea’s closed, long lashes, perfect black wingtips, waiting for a flicker.

He sees only the healer’s thin fingers in his peripheral vision. They work with a patient, practiced dexterity, prodding at Lea’s neck, running along his muscles searching for fractured bone.

Without hesitance or permission, they travel briefly up Isa’s arms where they connect with Lea, searching for breaks he isn’t sure aren’t there. She occasionally extends these brushes, once to his wrist, once to tilt up his chin so his eyes fix on hers, their kind determination reminding him of his mother despite their entirely different shape and shade. She offers only breaths of explanation: _pulse, no concussion_.

She doesn’t look like much: a pair of orange, waist-length pigtails, tied off with red ribbon and brushed off out of the way that remind him a bit of Elrena and a quiet smile that does anything but.

Isa hadn’t let the two healers that had approached earlier so much as touch him, had brushed them off with a flick of his hand, a glower, and a derisive sound in the back of his throat. But this one seems to understand, and she must be something special to have broken through the circle of Guard that, upon their late arrival and realizing their job had been done for them, had set up a perimeter around the pair of them.

_Most likely under arrest for the magic we wielded._

_So appearances be damned._

Isa shifts the hand from Lea’s chest to his hand and laces Lea’s fingers in his. The charred remains of Lea’s fingerless glove rub Isa’s palm, rough and stinging like rope, but Lea’s typically sunkissed skin is damp and cool, like a sunburn coated with aloe.

Isa glances up just briefly at the spray of green sparks and yellow lights the healer casts above Lea’s forehead. “ _Curaga._ ”

The most powerful healing spell. Not even Isa’s mother, with her twenty five years of experiences had performed it more than a few times. Certainly not without cutting through ribbon after ribbon of red tape. He glances around but the Guard faces outward, somewhat unattentive.

_It’s not as if we’re about to run off._

“Did you just…” Isa goes to meet her eyes, but she’s retrieving a large vial of luminescent green liquid from within her white lab coat, and he quickly dismisses the idea that calling her out would do any of them any good.

“Just a little trick I learned from a friend.” She smiles faintly through the lie as she places the vial in his hand. It’s lime colored contents bubble and glitter, almost transparent in the cruelly bright sun of the descending morning. “This is a…”

“Mega potion.” Isa clasps it carefully; it’s lighter than he expected.

“Very good. Take a swig and then tilt up your boyfriend’s head, give the rest to him.”

“Oh. _I_ don’t need…” He manages, gradually picking out her meaning through the haze in his skull.

“Yes.” Her green eyes narrow and it stings him though they are a more muted, softer shade than Lea’s cat eyes. “You do.”

“And he’s not…” Isa raises his eyes to the surrounding Guard again, as he lifts the potion to his lips and winces at the taste, sour yet oversweet. He spies a guard stealing a glance their way and murmuring, an unpleasant sneer wiped above his jaw. In the opposite direction stands an unusually somber Aeleus, uniform pristine, speaking with a castle courier.

_Definitely arrested._

_Arrested people don’t get cushy positions in the castle._

_Arrested people don’t become guards._

He knows this on a basic level, but the reality of it won’t sink in.

_Years of relentless work don’t just vanish in a spray of light and the strike of a sword._

Isa lowers the vial and leans his chin forward to wipe a dribble of potion onto the collar of his button down without letting go of the back of Lea’s head.

Isa coughs to clear his throat of slimy potion residue. The clouded ache in his head and the burns he carries on his shoulders like the weight of an entire canoe begin to subdue to a dull ache.

“He’s not what, dear?”

“He’s not doing well, then, I take it?” Isa concludes instead, his voice still unrecognizably uncertain.

The healer reaches out and sets her hand over his on the fat glass flask, squeezes it a little, concerned when he refuses to meet her eyes again.  She helps him tip the potion past Lea’s thin, pale pink lips. “I’m not authorized to tell you that.”

She takes the bottle back from Isa, trades it out for a spool of bandage wrap, rags, and a bottle of an unknown disinfectant. Then she leaves him much the way she found him, crumpled, forlorn, leaking tears, and smelling like an ashtray.

“Thank you,” he calls after her, slightly dazed at the responsibility she had left on his soon to be shackled hands. He says it loudly enough that a few guards turn their heads when his voice cracks before he quite manages the ‘K’. “Miss.”

“Strelitzia.”

“Thank you, Strelitzia.”   

* * *

Isa busies himself with tending to Lea’s wounds. The familiar scent of antiseptic clogs his nose as he swabs and wraps cuts. The practice had become all too familiar before Lea began taking his future with the Guard seriously.

Back when he stayed out at all hours, with friends who weren’t his friends, and practiced the wrong kind of self-care with ale and borrowed cigarettes. Isa swore off tending to him time and time again, but the sight of so much as a speck of blood on Lea’s collar undid each solemn vow. Perhaps that was why he never considered following his mother into the medical profession.

_It’s not quite the same without Lea’s hissing and flirtatious bitching, though._

Over Lea’s chest, he watches Stelitzia approach Aeleus, the most senior guard at hand. Both have mirroring grim, resolute sets to their expressions, and Isa is reminded again that Aeleus is Lea’s friend. That Lea swore up and down that the reticent man had the soul of a comedian.

“How is he faring?” Aeleus’ voice carries naturally, but the Guards who peer at him, more friends of Lea, no doubt, glance away again as he sweeps a withering gaze across their ranks.

Strelitzia makes no attempt to whisper, and Isa hopes the gods above bless her for it, “It’s difficult to say. The good news is most of his physical injuries are shallow. All this, I am afraid, is the price of magic. He’s spiritually drained.”

Aeleus keeps his expression carefully neutral. Most of the Guard don’t have a lot of patience for sorcery, and he has no wish to set himself apart from them. “Is that a fact or an opinion, healer?”

Strelitzia’s clasp on her medical bag tightens, and Isa quickly glances down to his work as their attention shifts his way. “You look at him and tell me.”

Aeleus’ pitch drops, but in such proximity, it’s not enough to protect against further eavesdropping, “We have no record of either of them studying magic.”

“It’s not always studied, Aeleus, and left untamed the consequences of use can escalate,” Strelitzia pauses, fingers tugging one pigtail thoughtfully, “But, I expect you know that.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you are referring to,” Aeleus levels carefully.  

 _This_ is almost inaudible, but Isa has always had exceptionally good hearing. Although with how often Lea sings in the shower, he wishes he didn’t more often than not.

“With rest he may recover fully. Or…Well, it’s difficult to say at this point.”

Isa’s hands quiver and he has to drop the bandage he’d been knotting and start again. His stomach feels like its been caught on by fishing hooks and is being dragged in several directions.  

“What shall we do?”

Strelitzia’s voice becomes a bit kinder at the unguarded strain in Aeleus’. Clearly he had been expecting, hoping for, a better prognosis.

“There’s very little we can do, but I’ve done most of it. Make him comfortable, keep him hydrated. Allow him to rest and recover.” Strelitzia can’t help but eye the surrounding Guard with distaste, her tone turning a bit steely again. “ _Ideally_ in a hospital.”

Aeleus opts to ignore the jab, though he spares the twelve guards a glance. “And Isa?”

They turn his direction as Isa fights to bite off the edge of the medical tape wound around Lea’s taut forearm, covering skin bronzer than the rest of him from the sun. Isa wishes his canines were just a bit sharper and wills the reddening of his cheeks to pale.

_They must know I’m listening in now, god damn it._

If they do, neither acknowledge it.

Isa doesn’t dare look up again, but he catches a bit of the rest. Enough to set his fingers unsteady again.

“Taking it rather hard, I think,” replies Strelitzia. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I meant physically.”

“Not all injuries are external.”

“If I wanted to talk ethics, Strelitzia, I’d buy you a drink at the local pub.”

“Heavy burns and lacerations. No breaks, but heavy bruising. I gave him a potion to ease the pain and speed up the healing process. He shouldn’t do anything strenuous for a few days, but barring infection he should recover fully within a few weeks.”

“He can walk away from this, then?”

“Physically.”

“That will have to suffice. If you’ll supervise Lea’s—”

“Actually, if you’ll excuse me, there are many more people who require my attention. I’ve left Isa to tend to Lea’s wounds. I doubt you’ll find a more dedicated nurse in all of Radiant Garden.”

Isa can feel their gazes burning into his back again.

“What happens next,” Strelitzia continues, sarcasm making her sweet voice jagged, “is in the ever-so capable hands of...”

“The gods, yeah.” Aeleus’ tone implies an eye roll. “I got it.”

“The Guard.” She pauses and Isa, bent, whispering in Lea’s ear, sees her striding off, white satin slippers glinting with dew as they swish through the grass. “I was going to say the Guard.”   

* * *

Everything happens more quickly after that. Someone strikes up the band and it launches into an upbeat tune that grates at Isa’s eardrums but seems to set the rapidly returning crowd and the guards more at ease as it floats in on a soft spring breeze.

Aeleus disperses several of his team throughout the courtyard, anxious to avoid another incident, but Isa still counts at least four sets of feet on standby.

The sun has toasted the back of Isa’s neck and shoulders by the time he finishes dressing Lea’s wounds, and he dimly resents that his studies prevented him from keeping up with his old fishing tan. The band progresses into a second song and one of the guards starts humming to himself.  

Isa sets one hand on Lea’s heartbeat and closes his eyes. It’s easy to pretend nothing has happened as the wind ruffles the hair that has fallen across his neck from its hasty one-handed knot, and as the music of the crowd and the orchestra mingles with the perfume of Radiant Gardens most exotic flowers, which rapidly replaces the bitter tang of the antiseptic soaking his hands.

“You know,” he tells Lea, eyes still pressed shut against the sunlight, “I’ve been imagining today since we were two feet tall and sword fighting with twigs on my father’s fishing boat. I can still hear him yelling that if we rock the boat any harder we’ll fall overboard. And you said you’d save me, and I said I’d save you and we’d be at it again.”

Laughter clumps in his throat and sticks there. Even then Lea had pretended to be on the Guard, valiantly defending Isa from cobwebs and the plush dragons Isa’s father pieced together from tattered scraps of canvas.

“I’ve probably pictured it about a million times, graduation, the announcement from Ansem, the posting of the assignments. But I could never quite get it right. And in my head, just about everything has changed. The shove of the crowd, the thrum of the music, the font on the list on the castle doors, the job I get or don’t get…”

“Ansem should be arriving any minute now,” one guard mumbles to another.

Lea takes an irregular breath and Isa opens his eyes and raises his chin. Just between the shoulder blades of two guards, he can glimpse the rising steps of the palace with their sweeping banners and lush green foliage.  

“But you and me, walking up to the gate, side by side, that’s how I’ve always pictured it.”

Another tear burns at his eyelid as fingers, gritty and damp with coarse fabric press against his cheek and a surprisingly rough grasp yanks at his shirt front. The hand drags him downward to face Lea. His cat eyes open to narrow slits, overwhelmingly green flickers of pure light.

Lea’s eyes flutter shut again and his split lip curls into the beginnings of a smirk. “You can’t keep saying things like that and expecting me not to try to kiss you.” He pulls Isa down further.

Isa doesn’t hesitate. Lea’s lips taste like salt. The kiss is light but Lea hisses as the cut on his bottom lip starts to burn. Isa halts and pulls back but Lea drags him forward. Kisses him harder. He blazes like a bonfire, but sometimes he reminds Isa of nothing more than an unrelenting sea.


	6. Entanglements

Tasting the bitter copper pull of blood, Isa once more endeavors to separate his mouth from Lea’s and pull back his torso. Foggily, groaning with the effort, Lea unclamps his fingers from Isa’s shirt front and lets him. Lea repositions his arms to prop himself up a bit, dragging the bare ribbons remaining of his dress shirt’s sleeves through the dirt, all a wayward attempt to see what’s become of the rest of the celebration turned unmitigated disaster.

Lea finds himself inexplicably surrounded by guards, their expressions running the gamut of human emotion. Tense-fisted, grimacing disgust from the old crone who had stood at the castle doors earlier appears beside wide-eyed, beaming exuberance from a rookie only a year Lea’s senior. Only Aeleus has managed to maintain his cool, expressionless mask.

Lea’s hazily aware that he and Isa have just broken the code in front of them all. He just can’t quite bring himself to give a fuck in his present state of pain, tension, and numbing, spreading relief.

Wide-eyed astonishment seems to be the most prevalent reaction, but Lea’s not entirely sure. As his chest tightens, the hues of the flower petals, the courtyard, and the Guard begin to swirl and mingle like mixed paints, and he has to lull his head back and squeeze his eyes shut.  

Isa hisses his name desperately, clutching at his shoulders, and it occurs to Lea how odd it is to see Isa express such intense emotion toward him so publicly.

_I must be really fucked._

“But they’re both _men_ …” a guard has the utter lack of sense to mumble, expression genuinely miffed, and Isa presents the entire group with a withering gaze that by all rights should have leveled them with the ground.

“Why didn’t you tell me we had an audience?” Lea asks wryly, and despite the quivering nature of his breaths he says it loudly enough for everyone to hear him. Isa’s attention recaptured, Lea drags his eyes open again, just slits, trying to bring the two most necessary colors into focus: ice blue, palest bronze. He reaches up and catches a strand of Isa’s hair between two fingers, savoring the silk of it in between his bandages. “I would have taken my time.”

Isa’s breath hitches in his throat, though Lea expects he’s the only one to notice it or the corresponding faint pink highlighting Isa’s razor-edged cheekbones, because _God_ what he feels for Lea in that moment is unbearable. Remembering himself and the ramrod up his ass, Isa straightens, bites off, “They would do well to mind their own damn business.”

A couple of the more respectable guards turn on their heels to face the crowd as if barked a direct order from a commanding officer. Unfortunately, Aeleus is not among them. The titan stands firm as the starched, heart-shaped curve of the uniform collar just below his throat.

“Well, this does explain some things,” Aeleus remarks, the expression on his square face and in his military posture so stonily uninvolved with the comment that Lea half convinces himself he had imagined the words until Isa drops the roll of medical wrap he had just retrieved from the ground in reply. All the guards know better than to chuckle at the hulking, ranking officer, Isa observes, except, apparently, Lea.

Lea doesn’t know what Aeleus will do with their forbidden love affair, or if he ever even really suspected.

He pries his eyes from Isa’s scarcely restrained fury and meets Aeleus’, still, flat blue, constant, a juxtaposition to the russet hair which, though he fights it into submission in the front, curls erratically in the back. Aeleus is a little like that, Lea supposes: a formal front, hiding an unpredictable nature.

As Lea’s recovering mind hyperfixates on these minor, superficial details, he can feel Aeleus fixating on him as well, zeroing in on the dribble of blood slipping from the corner of his mouth.

Lea opts not to wipe it away as he stretches his lips into something more akin to a grimace than a smile.

“Hey there, Ael,” he manages to call, voice raspy, the blood dribbling further down his chin.

“Welcome back, Lea.” Aeleus’ greeting booms, loud but neutral.  

Lea feels Isa, rigid beside him, as the titan’s shadow closes in on them.

“Thanks, big guy.” Lea’s eyes near glitter, his teeth gritting beneath a smile in attempt to keep it in place.

Isa opens his mouth to apologize for Lea’s informality, but Lea squeezes his wrist, nails digging.

If anyone were immune to Lea’s charms, Isa would have put his munny on the Guard’s officers, but Aeleus nods curtly, lips tucking in to restrain a relieved smile. Isa’s jaw goes taut and he stays quiet.

_Perhaps no one is immune._

Aeleus appears on the verge of chastising them, but Lea’s tongue could run circles around the taciturn guard’s, and the question is out before Aeleus can get his mouth open.

“How is she?”

The calming rhythm floating in from the bandstand ceases, marking a gap between songs. The Guard passes several beats in silence, waiting. Apparently, Lea notes, enough has happened between then and now that they hadn’t been expecting the question.

Lea supposes maybe they wanted him to defend himself.

 _Psh. Please._ How?

“That little girl,” Lea clarifies, louder, his throat burning with ash like he’s just been chain smoking, hand swishing through the air in trademark inquiry, “she alright?”

Aeleus glances off into the outside crowd, into a recent memory. “She’s recovering well.”

“And the Dusk?” Lea’s lower back aches from his half risen position. He exhales through his nose before easing himself further upright, half lifted by a vigilant Isa’s generously muscled arm, unusually warm against his back. Gray, crisp motes of ash float down in Lea’s wake, settling atop sharp blades of grass like flakes of snow.

Isa has to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from begging Lea to stay put. He deserves to know everything.

“The Heartless?” Lea corrects as Aeleus’ already V-shaped brows dip further down.

This time Aeleus’ eyes dart to Isa.

“Dead,” Isa pronounces tonelessly, mouth rapidly drying in the charred air. His left hand moves to wrap Lea’s shoulder, his right gently pressing Lea’s bandaged hand. He seems for a moment a different brand of unnerved. The Dusks’ raspy voices sift through his ears, and he remembers the strange, weightless sensation as his blade sliced through their hollow bodies. “They’re all dead.”

Lea finds himself similarly distracted, recalling the parting caution from Elrena that he hadn’t had the words to respond to.

_‘You don’t have a license either, dumbass! If the Guard catch you doing magic you can kiss your invitation to join them good-bye!’_

_Little did she know I could one up_ that.

The concept of the loss of his life’s work, or worse of _Isa’s_ by mere association, stretches before Lea so monumentally impossible that despite his brain’s steady stream of requests, his heart refuses to attempt to process the emotions. He doesn’t feel anything but a vast emptiness and the continuing, tingling ebb of relief coursing through his limbs and his mind.

Lea draws his fingertips to the pulse behind his forehead and sighs. “Then maybe all this will have been worth it.”

Silence sets in again, not quite long enough to suit anyone before Aeleus’ solemn nod gives Lea the distinct impression that his drinking buddy had rather someone else were overseeing this nightmare. “Indeed.”

Lea’s lip drags up in another unfortunate attempt at a grin. Isa refrains from rolling his eyes at the macabre sight, instead licking his thumb and leaning in to rub at the trail of blood down Lea’s chin. Isa’s face has tightened, relief somewhat dissipated, and Lea figures he’s well aware that the guards’ stares have returned, boring into him, the skin on his shoulders where they touch likely blazing. Lea is all too familiar with the sensation.

Lea’s mouth starts moving with Isa’s thumb still pressed to his lower jaw, brows giving an animated bounce, as Lea’s eyes widen in an impression of innocence, “Any chance I can convince you we were kissing platonically?”

The snickers are harsh and immediate. Even Isa chokes.

Aeleus’ expression does not change much. Maybe the creases soften around his eyes, or maybe Lea just needs more rest. “No.”

Lea stretches both hands behind his head and purrs, “Didn’t think so,” with quiet dejection. He crosses his ankles and stretches an arm behind his head, leaning back to recline in the soft grass, already half-committed to taking a restful doze and letting Isa tackle all the sordid details that are sure to arise if the Guard’s position around them is any indication. Both Isa and Lea are well aware the circle marks the containment of a dangerous fugitive. _What an honor..._

Isa notes Lea slipping off again, the feeling like a cold rinse to his intestines. His grip on Lea’s skin tightens as if he can pull him back.

Despite the glare Isa fixes him with, Lea’s eyelids flutter shut.

Of course Lea has dirt on Aeleus, too. Repeated intoxication, cursing, a smatter of bar brawls, even, he was once fairly certain, a short-lived relationship with another Guard. Lea’d likely be off the hook already, but Aeleus has quite the audience. Either way, Lea has zero intention of betraying Aeleus’ hard-won trust, and he can’t do it without admitting his own negligence, and snitches get stitches, ... _and all that shit._  

Aeleus is, apparently, opposed to restful napping, because he folds his hands behind his back and leans forward. Isa prods at Lea’s rib cage with an elbow and he starts back upright, rubbing at his eyes with a forearm, sparing the most fleeting of thoughts to how his eye make-up has fared through all this.

“What is the eighth point of the honor code, cadets?” Aeleus bellows and their ears ring with the proximity of it.

Reciting the honor code is second nature to any Radiant Academy student who has ever passed combat training or tactical strategy, which, thanks to a recent initiative to protect against the Heartless threat, is every Radiant Academy student. The recitations serve as a pop quiz, a behavior correction technique, a lesson supplement, a constant hammer to the head.

“Guards do not engage in romantic entanglements.” Lea and Isa lock eyes sportingly and recite the words in tandem as they had so many times when they were first learning them at sixteen, often pausing to lock lips just after eight in cavalier rebellion. It had been their way of making light of the decision casting its long shadow across the future of their relationship. “Their primary loyalty must lie unquestionably in the protection of their kingdom and its monarch.”

Isa raises Lea’s bandaged hand, trying not to be nauseated by the places his cuts have bled through, and brushes his lips across Lea’s knuckles. There’s not a guard among them who doesn’t see. More flinch than not.

It’s as if Isa wishes the destruction of their reputations to be complete and absolute, Lea observes, and the fierce pierce of affection strikes through his rib cage.

“Correct,” Aeleus annunciates, “I feared you had forgotten it.”

Behind him the guards’ postures shift, arms crossing, fists clenching, some heads tilting toward each other, toward the sky, others’ gazes glued to Aeleus.

Isa sets Lea’s hand on Lea’s chest and the pair meet Aeleus’ glower with obstinate solemnity.

“As you are not yet brothers of the Guard and the decisions as to your future membership have already been made,” Aeleus inclines his head and slowly spreads his hands, palms open,  “I see no reason to make note of this incident or issue either of you a citation, given the circumstances.”

_No punishment?_

Each unexpected word lightens the loads weighing Lea and Isa’s chests, and as he concludes they can do little more than blink. Lea’s mouth flaps open and just as quickly shuts. Isa’s spine has reached an inhuman level of straight.

It’s a temporary fix, a bandage bound to fall off, but considering the day they have had, it’s better than they had dared hope for.

Lea can’t help but wonder if the officer would have been so kind if a certain bombshell blonde spellcaster was at his side. He spares a second to wonder where she’s slunk off to, but he doesn’t have time to form it into a coherent inquiry before Aeleus speaks again.

“However,” Aeleus lets the word hang just long enough to serve as a cautionary tale, “I urge both of you to remember the code and carefully consider its place and priority,” his eyes shift from Isa’s to Lea’s, “ _in your futures._ Romance and deception are no tenets of the Guard.” His bulky arms cross, as he watches them process this. “Have I made myself understood?”

Their “Yes, sir,” rings out in eerie unison, an echo of the code they had recited.

“Good,” Aeleus straightens, taking a step back and turning away to consider his fellow guards and likely his next move.

Isa leans over Lea and they let themselves share a moment backlit with hope, expressions loosening and awash with relief.

“Hurrah,” Lea whispers, voice ever laced with irony, and he can feel his grin start to crinkle his eyes as Isa hesitantly returns it with a small one of his own.

It is all a bit much for Aeleus.

His heel digs in as he whirls back toward them, overcoat flapping, voice booming a bit above his natural volume, “Should your behavior continue with such flagrant disrespect for our ways, I will be _forced_ to change my mind.”

This takes a moment to sink in. Lea shoves his palm at Isa’s chest, pushing a bit harder than intended. Isa, on his knees at Lea’s side, falls back onto his rear as if he meant to, hands resting one atop the other in his lap.

“Good lord, gentlemen,” Aeleus mumbles through pursed lips, beneath crooked brows.

They straighten somewhat.

“Right you are, Officer.”

“Please accept our humble apologies,” Isa’s tone is a sharp contrast to Lea’s playful one, despite his equal lack of conviction.  

Aeleus pauses, assessing their questionable sincerity. Something has to give, but there’s not much else Aeleus can do to make that happen. _No point at present anyway._  So he nods and strides toward a vacant position in the circle of guards.

Aeleus pauses just before the gap in their ranks, the crowd visible just beyond it a blur of colors and increasingly jubilant voices. He gestures toward this makeshift exit with a sweep of his arm, accentuated by his pristine white, elbow length glove, embroidered with the ornate black outline of a heart.  

“Now that Lea seems to have his wits about him, Isa, you are free to depart.”

Isa bristles, glancing from Aeleus to the circle and back to Lea again, stalling for time as he picks himself up. _Just like that?_

Lea raises a brow, but otherwise conceals his confusion.  

 _Something is definitely up,_ Lea notes, casting his eyes about for explanation, fighting for focus against the overbright blurs at the edges of his vision.

_Unless they were never here for us._

_Maybe it’s Braig they’re after._

_It’d serve him right. The ass._

“Very well.” Isa nods warily, tone nothing if not generously courteous, “We appreciate the mercy you have shown us and will not take your counsel lightly, Officer Aeleus.” He bends a knee and extends a hand toward his now smirking friend, tone lowering, “Lea, babe, darling,” Isa finds himself largely ignored by his lounging companion, “dearest, dumbass, shit for—” this proves a more effective means of securing Lea’s attention, and Isa nearly smiles at the fixed, glass bottle green glare that halts his tongue.  “Lea, do you think you can stand?”

An uncertain hum vibrates in Lea’s throat, and he considers the callused plane of Isa’s palm with open relief.

“You mistake me.” Aeleus’ voice has reached an irritated rumble, the kind Lea has heard precede the one or two chair splitting bar brawls Aeleus has ever initiated.

Isa drops his outstretched palm and turns the senior officer’s way, his neat blue brows rising. He purses his lips, finding himself facing Aeleus’ brawny shoulders, as he motions a pair of guards forward.

“Cadet Isa, _you_ are to depart. Cadet Lea is to be contained until I receive further commands.”

Usually the picture of civility, Isa scoffs, and it pulls Lea’s nerves all the tighter, watching as Isa shoves stray strands of hair back from his shoulders and clenches both fists. “ _Sir_.”

“On what grounds?” this from Lea, more weary than defensive. He’s still flat on his back, breathing in damp grass and dandelions, one knee bent up, unwilling to admit to muscles too locked to join Isa on his feet.

Aeleus picks up a boot to draw attention to a scorched patch of what was probably grass once beneath it. His thick brows, square as his jaw, also creep upward. “These grounds.”

Isa draws a hand to his chest as he appends, plenty defensive, “Am I not to be charged as well?”

Lea can hear the scuff as Aeleus’ knee-high boot hits the ground a bit unevenly, startled by the objection. Lea feels a starburst of tension between his brows as well.

Aeleus fixes Isa with a long stare and a silence, brief but tense. “We did have a handful of witnesses report that you slayed the beasts using a _magic_ sword.”

Lea snorts, eyes shutting, the light creases in his forehead smoothing out. He imagines Aeleus allows himself a subtle smirk in response.

A silence extends, no doubt drawing still more side glances from the guards, though Lea can’t be bothered to spare them a searching glance of his own. If any of them will be treating him differently in light of his relationship with Isa, he doesn’t want to know about it just yet.

Those same eyes flicker open only moments later.

_Isa really ought to be denying this._

Angling his neck is a little painful, but once done, Lea can see doubt setting into Aeleus’ hardening features. _If Ael said ‘magic’ again, he might not do it quite so sarcastically._

Isa’s mouth remains stubbornly shut, though he has taken a few confrontational steps forward, one arm akimbo.

Mentally paging through laws regarding sharing information with suspected criminals, Aeleus figures he’s safe to give the young man just a bit more leeway before he digs himself deeper into a ditch. “However, the only weapon recovered at the scene was a perfectly ordinary rapier. Without evidence, we have no grounds to hold you.”

Mumbling resumes among the guard. Lea thinks he hears the word ‘favoritism.’ They seem as keenly aware as Lea is in this moment that Aeleus is fond of him, as stone-faced as his countenance appears.

“Likewise,” Aeleus continues as Isa casts his eyes skyward in consideration, “there have been no implications that you were involved with casting any fires.” Now there is a definite smirk across Aeleus’s broad mouth that pricks at Isa’s skin. “Unless you are overly eager to confess to either?”

_Unless I want to go to prison, you mean. Of course there will be hell to pay if I lie now and evidence comes later._

_What evidence?_ Isa counters himself. _I haven’t the slightest idea how, if, I wielded that blade._

Though his gaze returns, once again Isa hesitates in clearing his name. Lea groans, drawing concerned stares without meaning to.

“Isa’s got about as much magic as you do, Aeleus,” his tone is neither confrontational nor amused.  “Let ‘im be.”

Aeleus ignores the biased defense and continues studying Isa without malice.

 _Isa,_ Lea thinks, _who god knows why, seems concerned with perjuring himself over something he had no involvement with._

Isa’s thoughts must echo Lea’s because he finally draws up his defenses, expression strangled into calm, tone acerbic, “To clarify your terms, _sir—_ if I wish to stay and tend to my wounded ex-lover,” he flicks a few fingers toward Lea in identification, “who can’t so much as pick himself off the ground, I first must admit to these absurd, unfounded accusations?”

Bam. _Hell yeah. Wait._

“ _Ex?_ ” Lea mumbles, brows arching beneath straying strands of red.  “For fuck’s sake, Isa…”

“What?” Aeleus brow furrows deeper, lines scored in his forehead. He mouths Isa’s words in attempt to make sense of them. Lea’s not sure if he’s stuck on the ‘lover’ or ‘blackmail’ bits.

“Trying to clarify your terms, officer.”

“That’s not what he’s saying at all,” Lea mutters from the ground, louder, hands fumbling for the medical supplies in case forced into a hasty retreat. He catches onto a roll of gauze and a tiny bottle, both sticky, though with blood or alcohol, he’s not eager to venture a guess.

“Of course it’s not,” Aeleus confirms tersely, mouth straight and grim.

“Then I stay.” Isa crouches back down to Lea’s side, ignoring the angry throb of sore muscles, and Lea leans up to meet him, the supplies dropping softly, thoughtlessly back to the grass. He wants nothing but to spread his hands across Isa’s chest, to feel the pulse of his heart beat and bring him some modicum of calm.

“You’re no good to a man in a cell if you’re on the bench beside him,” Aeleus cautions evenly.

Hearing the reality of his arrest hit the air for the first time, Lea’s whole body tenses. Slowly, he lowers himself back down, fingers folding across his chest and teeth digging into his tongue, caging fire.

Aeleus lifts two gloved fingers and, like a conductor, directs two guards forward. “Escort Cadet Isa outside the perimeter.”

“Please.” Isa exhales and shifts, rising, planting his feet, clenching his fingers. He offers them the bitterest of smiles. He’s outnumbered, and he knows better, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Try it.”

“ _Isa_ ,” Lea chastises. A quiver of fear takes shape in the hiss of an ‘S’.

The pair of guards approach with heavy footfalls that Lea can feel vibrate beneath him. Lea raises one hand in front of his face and snaps his fingers, trying to light a spark, but manages nothing more than a ghost of gray smoke, underscoring the absence of the ember burn of the _Fira_ stone in his hands or pockets. The effort sends a jolt of nausea up his throat and straight to his brain.

“And take him to Strelitzia,” Aeleus adds. “Cadet Isa seems to have suffered a blow to the head.”

Isa grits his teeth as the guards move to either side of him, hesitantly preparing to clasp his shoulders.

“Come on, mate,” the first guard murmurs, her expression earnest, all wide, pale orange eyes. “No one has to get hurt.”

The other grumbles in disbelief and shakes out her dark curls. “Enough dancing.” She has a sharp northern accent. She grasps Isa’s shoulder and the other guard follows suit.

Isa doesn’t bother to brush off the tear that slides across his cheek as he stares at the owner of the hand that grips his shoulder too tightly.

She stares back, concern intermixed with resolve. “Let us get you to a medic, mate.”

“Get. Off,” Isa hisses. “I will only ask once.”

The guards’ generous muscles flex as they brace themselves, and they haul him a few steps forward, grass and dirt clumping and creating ridges at their feet.

“Isa _go_.” In the corner of Isa’s eye, Lea is a cloud of ash and wayward limbs in the grass, fumbling to sit up, and once doing so, holding his head in both hands, muscles all unrelentingly heavy. “Go with them, I’ll be. I’ll be...” His mouth hangs open but the words fade out, inconclusive, as his consciousness wavers.

Rage pulls a cry from Isa and he rears backward. “Look at _him,_ you absolute imbeciles. Focus on him. He saved everyone here before you so much as arrived. He prevented mass slaughter. And what have _you_ done?”

The guards are calling to each other now, Aeleus barking orders above the din, but their words don’t register in Isa’s silver studded ears.

He sweeps his arm toward Lea, nearly throwing the guard attached, “Here is your goddamn hero, confined to this space like a common criminal, like he’s nothing, nobody.” Lea’s word tastes sour on Isa’s tongue and he resists the urge to spit. With a violent yank he manages to shake one guard’s grip, sending her reeling into her brethren, but the other clings all the tighter.

Another is on him in seconds. Two. Four.

“He is a hero!” Isa continues, fists lashing wildly, hair whipping in every direction, as they drag him forward. “He is half-conscious. He is barely breathing. I require _nothing_ except that you let me stand by him and ensure that you self-righteous barbarians keep him alive!”

Isa’s roar rings above everything. Several guards fall back at another toss of his arms, one greeting the dirt with a low groan.

“I whole-heartedly agree.”

Silence and stillness ascend as the hulking uniformed officer who has just spoken and a petite woman with lavender curls approach.

“Release him,” the guard continues in his commanding, accented tenor, and, not without trepidation, the hands bruising each inch of Isa’s arms slacken and drop away. “ _Now_.”

Salutes and murmurs follow in quick succession, as one newcomer wades through their swiftly parting ranks, and the other is halted behind them.

Dilan fixes his stern blue-gray eyes on Isa, who manages a clipped salute of his own as his ankles snap together.

“First Officer Dilan,” Isa drawls, cool tone an attempt to muffle his shock at the unexpected support. His eyes scan the seven foot man’s square face for signs of motivation. Guards typically stand together, even when they disagree.

“Officer,” echoes a teasing voice, pulling stares. Lea has somehow made it to his feet, albeit shakily, torso bent slightly forward. He swipes his knuckles across his brow and winks at Dilan. Meanwhile, the northern guard who didn’t want to dance offers him her arm in support and he caves into it with a reluctant sigh and a smile of gratitude.

 _Ah. So that’s it then,_ Isa muses, _Dilan’s_ _another friend of Lea’s._

_The damned flirt._

Dilan grimaces and his square jaw makes it look stately. “These men have done what the Guard could not. On my honor, we ought to be offering them medals, not hauling them off.” Dilan surveys the Guard, frozen in the act.

Aeleus shuffles forward, arms crossing, nodding respect to his fellow ranking officer. “They are under arrest, are they not?”

“Then by all means, _un_ -arrest them.”

The first officer takes an uncompromising step toward the second, who stands his ground, unimpressed.

“I cannot merely _un_ -arrest them because I feel like it.”

As a second officer, Lea concedes Aeleus lacks the authority and audacity. _My man Dilan, though…_

“Oh?”

A bold white grin slips from Dilan, strangely off-putting against such a solemnly angular face. The expression stuns everyone except perhaps Lea, who has watched Aeleus and Dilan drink cider and commiserate together in a corner stall of the local tavern every Thursday night for four years. “Well, I can.”

And Lea may or may not be the bartender who periodically offers them something a little harder than cider after particularly hard weeks and keeps his loquacious mouth shut about it.

Dilan’s tone deepens and a more formal expression replaces his mild smirk, “As acting first officer in the field, in the name of Ansem and the Captain of his Royal Guard, I hereby offer Lea son of Fletcher and Isa the Azure a full pardon from all actions of dubious legality occurring this morning, as reward for their heroic and selfless deeds. You are a credit to the Academy and to your districts.”

The Guard remain frozen, eyes flicking between leaders.

“All actions, all morning,” Aeleus echoes, and Isa finally sees it, a flicker of humor. “They’ll be wanting that written down word for word. Won’t you, gentlemen?”

Somebody behind Isa snickers, and he figures it’s probably Lea.

“We could scarcely object,” Isa replies, soft but straight-faced, dignified, chin dipping ever-so-slightly. Inside the wash of relief stings against the cut of caution. _This could save us._

More raucous laughter ensues from a few of their closer companions. Hackles lower and claws retract.

Isa’s unruffled demeanor only widens Lea’s hazy-eyed, lopsided grin.

Dilan’s face tightens, aware he has missed something, too wise to ask what. “That can be arranged.”

He scans the Guard in search of challengers, but their faces range only from guarded to privately amused. Dilan steps up and offers his hand to Lea, and, bracing himself on the northern guard’s shoulder, Lea takes it, charred glove further disintegrating as it brushes Dilan’s calloused palm. The remaining threads snag against the item stealthily pressed there.

“Let me be the first to say: well done, Cadet Lea.”

Neither the officer nor the cadet outwardly react to pulse of heat from the stone as it meets Lea’s skin, though, Dilan would wager the faint pink brand won’t leave his palm for another week.

“Thanks, brother.”

Dilan’s boots pound out another few staccato steps and then he’s clasping both his hands around one of Isa’s, inadvertently coating long pallid fingers in ashy residue.

“Cadet Azure. Thank you for your selflessness.”

And Isa knows it’s a throwaway compliment, reflexive as the ‘Have a good afternoon, ya hear?’ of a store clerk, but of all the mindless words he could have offered, ‘selfless’ packs a sucker punch, and Isa’s cheeks pucker, thinking of how closes his blade came to the little girl as he brought down the final Dusk.

Dilan’s brows slope expectantly. “It’s an honor to be of service, sir,” he manages, though the words bounce off the side of Isa’s tongue, only half sincere.

“Well then,” Aeleus reaches a large mitt out for Isa’s hand as well, unenthused, but grip firm. He turns back to the Guard. “Here’s to our _heroes_.” Aeleus slaps his hands together, and the Guard joins him in a surprisingly rousing smatter of applause, which sends Lea’s spirits sailing and pisses Isa off.

_The hypocrites._

Lea feigns a bow, and Isa turns curtly from the officers, muttering only “We’re going,” before crossing the brief distance to Lea’s side, and wrapping his hands around his friend’s biceps without processing the stares of his comrades. These mercifully disrupted as, in the distance the crowd of graduates erupts in one voice like the pop of champagne.

“It’s beginning,” the guard supporting Lea murmurs, and he squints to catch a glimpse.

Atop the castle stairs, a pair of guards draw open the entryway, two story doors, gleaming with polish and ornately carved with twining tangles of curving vines and thorny hearts. A few individuals with impeccable posture exit the castle and parade across the landing, heads high as their steps swish, their clothing the color and sheen of jewels.

Lea watches their progression with a slow smile and the tickle of thrill in the pit of his stomach, in spite of all the morning’s chaos. He’s been looking forward to this for over a decade. His eyes shut to take in the renewed vigor of the trumpets and hum of the flutes from the bandstand and, slipping the _Fira_ stone into his pocket, he relaxes further into the locked grips of Isa and the Northern guard.

“What’re  you…?” Lea asks, leaning heavily into Isa’s side as Isa secures one arm across his shoulder blades and maneuvers the other to sweep beneath Lea’s knees and scoop him up entirely.

Lea’s heavier than he looks, _as always_ , all deceptively narrow limbs lined with compact muscle.

“Whoa there, tiger.” Lea’s lanky legs spill over his man’s bulging arm, heels connecting with Isa mid-thigh, and Lea gives a slight scissor kick to test Isa’s grip, earning him a tight squeeze to the ribs and thigh. “Maybe I oughta get myself roughed up more often.”  

“Don’t joke.”

Isa stalks past the commanding officers, still giving off waves of mild irritation at his irreverent departure, barely abiding the cheeky salute Lea tosses them, as Isa brushes through what remains of the security circle. He merely nods at the well-meaning guards that touch his shoulder with apologies or well-wishes, not bothering to listen closely enough to determine which.

Isa directs them away from the Guard toward the edge of the crowd where Calliope stands waiting, a thousand questions and comments lingering on her lips. Isa waves her ahead with a flutter of his wrist and, though her arms cross and her nose crinkles, she nods her assent and starts off, leaving them to tail her through the dense throng of people, all inching closer to the castle steps now that the posting is nearly underway.

 

Sighing, Lea pillow his head in the crook of Isa’s neck, wild hair soft and teasing against delicate skin.

“Ya know,” Lea angles his mouth toward the underside of Isa’s throat, breath damp, “it’s so hot when you go all fucking crazy like that.”

Isa stiffens, reliving his outburst, lashing out at the guards that may soon be his peers, calling them out on their hypocrisy, pressing his lips to Lea’s skin, and yet regretting none of it.

“Shut your damn mouth,” Isa admonishes, but he dips his chin in toward that mouth, _tongue?_ and picks up his pace, unwilling to let the Guard see the flush spreading up his neck like fine lace.

 

* *

 

Elrena had passed through the dark corridor with unusual ease, Braig’s stifling leather coat somehow rendering her impenetrable to the clammy prodding fingers of darkness that had wrapped each available inch of her skin the past few times she had grudgingly followed him through. She does not feel the lingering, mind and body numbing chill, soaking through her as if searching for bone.

_Fun fucking fact: You can darkness-proof leather._

Ordinarily this would be a relief, a source of fascination even, but when she does not find her feet sinking into the plush security of one of her shop’s rune-marked carpets--when she does not smell rich spices or adjust to pleasantly dim lighting, she finds herself wishing she _were_ in some kind of stupor.

Because the portal did not take her the fuck home.

_Fun fucking fact number two: Braig’s portals are only loyal to Braig. Even if I’m absolutely killing it in his kinky, darkness-proof leather threads._

Elrena has been on a grand total of one tours of the castle, but she doesn’t have time to delude herself into hoping she might have wound up anywhere else.

The sweeping, vaulted ceilings could top the manor of some ritzy noble, and the grooved columns could uphold the Radiant Museum of Art (grand total of zero tours, but who was counting?).

But Braig had been headed for the castle, and she can still smell the faint hint of his cologne of sunned leather and chewed mint leaves not quite masking tobacco. What’s more she can hear the resounding thwack of his arrow gun’s projectile spikes hitting their marks.

She winces preemptively, but whatever whimpers of pain Braig’s target emits come too quietly to reach her ears.

_Fun fact number three: When your criminal house guest says he took out all of the castle guards he is a mother fucking liar._

The impressive decor of the castle with its polished, white and black marble flooring, elaborate and glossy threaded tapestries, and sharp sun gold paint, takes a backseat to her pointed survey for an exit. But the corridors seem to stretch endlessly in either direction, unusually bright electric lamps in golden sconces forcing an unnerving sense of timelessness.

_So it looks like a hasty retreat is off the menu._

_And since I’m already here._

A distinctly Braig yelp and a delayed chuckle resound down the corridor to her right, past a glass encased sculpture, ( _has to be a sculpture, right_?) of a human heart.

_Might as well stay on his good side. Might as well go out with a bang._

Elrena tucks her hair down the back of her coat, yanks her hood up, and tightens the cords. An electric charge buzzes from her core up her spine, settling in her fingertips and causing her ponytails to twitch.

Her gaze lingers on the heart and its chambers seem to pulse a final time just as she glances away, a smile already beginning to lighten her features.

_Bow down, Guards._

_Your queen has arrived._

 

* *

 

Braig considers himself to be a realist.

So he doesn’t wait for Elrena, _though it would be damn helpful to have a little back up right now._ He knows, inevitably, that she’ll be along. Won’t be able to resist it.

But she’s going to hold out, drag her feet, make him nervous. _Because that’s a woman for you, am I right?_

Likewise, he expects that, despite knocking out a significant portion of the Guard, he won’t be able to make it to the old lab, or to Xehanort, unopposed.

Which is why he invited Elrena, and why he’s doing this _now_ , while the whole kingdom sings a communal “Kumbaya” for its new apprentices, or, possibly, puts Ansem’s head on a pike for…

_Well, they’ll find that out soon enough._

What Braig _doesn’t_ expect is to waltz straight through his dark corridor and into the castle atrium and find himself nose to nose with some asshole with a saber drawn.

_Because, I mean, at some point the universe has to cut a guy a break, right?_

_Wrong._

Well, nose to nose is an exaggeration. Mere feet, to be accurate. But the saber is dull and the man, young. Braig notes an ancient, horned suit of dull green armor standing sentry at a nearby archway, the weapon once gripped between its two hands, one atop the other, now absent.

_Resourceful little bugger._

_Utterly stupid. But resourceful._

The young man, _a boy, really,_ as far as Braig’s concerned, holds its rusted hilt shakily, glancing from Braig to the portal as if an army might follow him through.

_Although, if I’m honest, El’d be the more intimidating of the two._

And Braig knows he’ll be fine.

_Thanks a fucking billion, universe._

Said young man lifts the rim of a beige stetson, now too far back on his head, banded with braided black cord and adorned with a single sharp red feather, gleaming like a wet knife. The gesture reveals soft, brown eyes and a perplexed crinkle set just above and between them. “Shit. How did you…?” he stammers softly, “Who _are_ you?”

Braig has strolled these arched hallways a thousand times in his days as an apprentice and guard, and he doesn’t waste a second breathing in the elegant decor or expensive scent.

“Out of the way,” he barks, glaring at the stranger and striding purposefully toward him across slippery marble that chills the soles of his boots.

The hat and polished riding boots suggest the young man’s on his way out to the celebration. But he still smells more than a bit like the stable, meaning he ain’t a stickler for high society rules, assuming he _is_ high society and not a misplaced field hand.

_So maybe if I scare him shitless, he won’t mind writing me off and going on his merry way._

_Worked with Lea, anyway._

_And if not…_

Braig feels the weight of an arrowgun forming in his outstretched glove, prepped to smack into the sword if necessary, fire straight through this sucker while the element of surprise is still at his disposal.

Not that he particularly wants to do that. He doesn’t like making messes he’s not getting paid to make.

The saber lowers a fraction at the appearance of a vastly superior weapon and the practiced authority in Braig’s tone. Its wielder seems on the verge of an apology.

Braig’s mouth twitches at this, and the young man notices, remembers himself, straightens his posture and his weapon. He inclines his head purposefully toward the intruder, because without a uniform he _must_ be an intruder. _But wait--_

Braig watches the kid’s thoughts play out across his face like a shitty poker partner, and Braig makes the mistake of looking him full in the eye. And usually that’ll do it, strike terror into the hearts of snot-nosed brats. Even the tight-pant noble ones.

But his eyes are the same brown Braig’s used to be, not a common color on this world, and something about that strikes a cord in his memory, throwing him off.

The bitch’s eyes widen as his mouth seems to shrink, and he mumbles, in that damnable hokey way that everyone’s been saying it lately, “ _Braig._ ”

Half-horror, half-awe, as if Braig’s crawled from a fresh grave, clumps of dirt and glossy, black shelled beetles still clinging to his person, rank, bits crumbling off with each step.

“Who wants to know?”

“You’re Lieutenant Braig,” the young man repeats and his voice is a little rusty sounding, like it doesn’t get much use.

 _Lieutenant, eh?_ Braig fixes him with a smile that the man’s flinch tells him is not as pleasant as intended. _Haven’t heard that in a while._

“And what are you, to be roaming about the castle all by your lonesome? A field hand with a scandalous lover? Somebody’s page boy?”

“You don’t remember me, do you?” The young man glances around as if he needs another witness to corroborate that he isn’t seeing phantasms, and then under the suffocating pressure of Braig’s stare, he adds slowly, drawing fingertips to the center of his chest, his weapon, sweeping behind him as he leans forward in the slight semblance of a bow. “I certainly remember _you._ ”

He doesn’t identify himself. _So sneaking stable hand it is._

“Pity.” Braig tosses off his smile and stretches out his left hand. The arrow gun’s twin materializes and both glimmer with a faint, cautionary violet light. “It would probably be better if you hadn’t.”

The stable boy takes a half step back, gripping the sword all the tighter, though the tenseness of his muscles must betray his lack of training, because he catches an amused tic in Braig’s jaw.

“Damn,” the stable boy says and whistles, head shaking, and then a spurt of laughter escapes his mouth. Tension lifts from his shoulders like he’s taken off his heavy riding coat. “You had me going for a moment there.”

Braig’s eyebrows bounce but he dismisses one of the arrowguns and rolls that shoulder back, forces out a tone slightly more casual, as he stretches the weapon back behind his neck, rubbing his skin with his knuckles just above the hood, “Oh, I did, did I?”

_Scrawny-ass cowboy punk obviously has a noggin full of straw and horse shit._

“I never could fathom how you could say something so malicious so entirely straight-faced.”

The irritatingly genuine laughter continues, and Braig offers a brief, unfeeling bark of his own, returning the remaining gun to its position, aimed at the kid’s chest. He raises it a smidge as if to admire the glint of the spikes. The stable hand, lost in a memory, doesn’t appear to notice.

_It always feels cruel to damage something so harmlessly stupid._

“When I first came to stay at court, the nobles would make their excuses if they saw you at the doors, double back the way they came if they saw you approaching at Ansem’s side.” The stable boy’s getting a little red in the face with embarrassment and nostalgia, but Braig’s feeling colder.

_The kid’s getting awfully specific now._

“Why, once, I was telling you a tale and I asked if you were still listening, and _you_ , you dog, you said to me, ‘Boy, I stopped listening fifteen seconds after you opened your trap. And if Ansem didn’t like you so damned much, I’d’ve tossed you over the fucking banister by now.’”

_Ansem? So not a field hand then. Some sort of agricultural adviser? Impossible. Ten years ago, he’d have been not much younger than the lovesick idiots I dragged out the clock tower. Any older and I'd remember that jaw, those eyes..._

Tension massages Braig’s shoulders, leaving knots behind, and he scowls at the claims he has no memory of making but, at this rate, every intention of fulfilling.

“I take it we weren’t on the first floor.”

Idiot nobles that Braig made sport out of scaring outta their hand-embroidered britches were one munny a dozen, but this one was clearly, inexplicably fond of him.

“Fifth, if memory serves.”

The saber’s dropped completely, relaxation smoothing the sharp angles of the young man’s shoulders beneath his riding coat.

Braig reevaluates his options. The guy isn’t in a tizzy trying to get him arrested, ergo, clearly knows jackshit about why Braig skipped town.

And it has been ages since he navigated this place, wouldn’t hurt to have an escort to help him find a certain someone.  _A not hideous escort at that._

“So I was a dick to you, huh?” Braig smiles, friendlier this time, and gestures for the young man to walk with him, “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“You were a riot,” the young man grins, chuckles even.

“That’s me,” Braig deadpans, starting forward so the kid doesn’t see his expression drop.

The young man readjusts his stetson to keep it from slipping, sheepishly returning the saber to the suit, and scurries to keep up with Braig’s determined pace. The question is hesitant, a forced brand of casual, “They removed you from the Guard, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Uh-huh.” Braig halts, catching the boy off-guard, stares again into brown eyes. Remembers why they’re so startling. “Tax evasion.”

The actual charges had been a tad more colorful. Mishandling of a certain pair of young adolescent criminals. _Child abuse. Reckless endangerment. Sex. Booze. Rock and roll._

And if Braig ever finds out who reported him, he'll be adding murder to that list.   
  
The kid blanches, frowns, almost disappointed, “Oh shit, is that all?”

Braig cuts himself some slack for not figuring out who he's talking to sooner. Kid doesn’t sound like himself, and of course, doesn’t look it.

Braig nods sagely, and sweeps his hands up in a shrug, before swinging right through one of many identical hallways, toward Ansem’s private office. “All it takes, my friend. Now I need to speak with Xehanort. He’s promised to help get me back in the green, so I can walk in the path of light etcetera, etcetera. You mind giving an old man an escort?” Braig’s mouth and scar stretch wide, teeth sharp, gleaming. “For old time’s sake?”

The hat bobs. “Sure thing, Lieutenant!”

The enthusiasm is so genuine, it’s all Braig can do not to seize him by the shoulders and stare into those eyes again, ensure they’re a carbon copy of his own.  The mark of an illusion, _albeit a damned good one._

“I’ll escort you to his office.”

_Yeah, fucking right._

“Excellent.” As they walk, Braig wraps an arm around Ienzo’s shoulders paternally, arrow gun and all, careful not to jab _too_ hard with any of the spikes, though another inch or so and somebody’d be mopping crimson from marble tiles. “You and I are going to get along just fine.”


	7. Guttersnipes

“It’ll be okay. It’s going to be okay.”

Isa murmurs this, his new mantra, into Lea’s ear without pause as Lea fades in and out of consciousness, cradled in his arms, and Isa tries not to jab the crowd with Lea’s lanky limbs as he stays on Calliope’s wedge heels, muddling toward the front of the crowd where, as the president, she’s expected. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

“Hhh,” Lea attempts, voice cracking, and Isa squeezes the thigh closest to his hand.

“Shh...everything’s fine.”

“How do you know?”

Despite the heavy pressure weighing down his chest, only half of which comes from carrying his six foot something boyfriend, Isa feels his lips stretching wide. He finds himself repeating words that belong to his father, his explanation for anything and everything for as long as Isa can remember and likely longer. The tired, wizened words of a sailor, an astronomer, given with a stern frown and slightly lifted gaze invoking a velvet sky of constellations over the gentle toss of waves and scent of surf. “The moon told me.”

Lea groans and presses his nose back against Isa’s collar bone. He mumbles something. It sounds a bit like _god damn psychics._

* *

Weaving through jubilant graduates, chattering and pushing back, Calliope’s grin gradually spreads. Relief runs its steady course through her bloodstream until it threatens to tear her face in two as she breaks through the front of the crowd, only yards from the castle steps, and hugs her neighbors, cheering in blatant relief at her return. Her attention quickly shifts back to the pair she has escorted.  “Are you ready, boys?”  
  
Isa collapses into the grass, Lea still tucked against him like an overgrown cat or possibly a tiger outright. Isa’s brows rise and his head cocks. “Suppose we’ll have to be.”  
  
Calliope watches them and shakes her brief lavender ringlets. "Broken up, my ass."  
  
" _Calliope,_ " Isa hisses, and Lea snorts. "Here?"  
  
She waves off his concern like a drip of rain, realizing for the first time that they probably never were.  
  
He'd been lying for months, then, and she should be angry, but to see the solemn, particular man treat anything with such intimacy makes her heart stutter. That it's a mess like Lea... well that makes it both better and worse.

Lea notes Calliope’s foundation has faded, her lip gloss disappeared, her eyeliner smudged, but the radiance of that exhausted smile seems to make up for it tenfold. He can feel it spreading to his own lips.  
  
Isa notes the change, bemused, as Lea shuts his eyes and hums along with the music swelling from the increasingly distant bandstand, as Ansem and his attendants lead the crowd in mouthing Radiant Garden’s anthem. “What’s that for?" Isa's expression softens, a thoughtless finger trails down Lea's cheek, "That smile.”  
  
“Just, ya know,” Lea shakes his mane, and curls his fingers into what’s left of Isa’s button down, savoring the warmth radiating from the skin just above his heartbeat, “I think maybe the moon was right.”  
  
Isa lets himself laugh.

*      *

King Ansem the Wise has not hand-posted the apprenticeship announcements since before Isa and Lea were old enough to sneak out of class and into the square to join in on the festivities.

Lea had hawked fresh dragon fruit or orchids or second-hand gossip for whatever Moogle would have him to anyone with two munny to rub together. Isa had stood steadfast at his side, flatly refusing to assist in charming the mushy-hearted out of their savings with a wink and a ready smile, instead, opting to stare at everything, hyper aware that tomorrow it would fade away and he would be tasked with recreating it in his mind as a distraction from the mind numbing rock of his father’s fishing boat. Both young men dodged school admin and jovially wished their older friends all the luck the gods had to spare.

Isa’s habit of being overly observant had hardly waned in the passing years, and if anyone had been paying due attention to him, they would not have been surprised that he was the first to notice that Ansem would not be hand-posting the apprenticeship announcements this year either.

“Where’s the list?” he mutters, eying the king at his podium, rich dress robes, slick white-blonde hair, regal posture, empty palms rising in brief response to something spoken by the captain of the guard, as the high priestess continues her prayer, blessing the morning, their gathering, the injured, the city, the day.  

The trio crowd together, clinging to each other in anticipation, surrounded by their closest friends, their laughter giddy and their teeth grit behind wide smiles.  

“Hm?” Lea leans heavily into Isa’s side. The potion had made short work of Isa’s pains, closing scratches, lightening bruises, even dulling his panic, but Lea has been less fortunate. The lengthy shove through the sprawling crowd as the young men trailed Calliope had left him breathless with white starbursts where his thoughts should be.

Isa feels another pang of backwards gratitude that their friends and classmates, eager to greet and catcall them at first sight, had fallen painfully silent, catching sight of charred clothing, patches of bare skin and taut expressions—offering instead whispered well wishes, thanks, and condolences, tentative pats and light embraces.

“The list of apprentices,” Isa clarifies softly, as Lea runs an ashen hand through his loose, long red-orange almost curls, streaking them auburn, and ties off the bandage he’s been working around Isa’s forearm for the better part of ten minutes.

Accepting medical supplies they were unsure how Calliope had time to pick up during their near imprisonment, Lea had set about tending to the light injuries remaining on Isa’s forearms and shoulders. She supervised, fighting not to comment as Lea forced himself to work with a precision not as uncommon from him as his devil may care approach to the world might have had her believe.

 _Although_ , she considers, years of academy training had made excellence second nature to him, so perhaps this _is_ his autopilot lazy.

 _Probably,_ she ultimately admits, _it’s just because it’s Isa._

Regardless, this does not prevent him from exchanging jabs with her, now that her attention has wandered from his hands on Isa’s skin. Her eyes comb the crowd for the only classmate aside from her VP and his dick of a boyfriend whose absence has caught her attention.

“If you only have eyes for Ienzo, I’ll be forced to accept new applications for the position of Isa’s future wife,” Lea goads Calliope, words exiting his tired throat softer and lower than usual despite their mocking edge.“Do you really want to put me through that again?”       

“There should be a list, a hammer, a nail, a fucking index card at the very least…” Isa continues, crossing gauzy arms, and tilting his head to the side to see if anyone aside from his distracted companions shares his mounting concern as the captain of the guard drones on in her introduction of the man who needs none.

Mostly they don’t, but Isa catches a nearby professor frown, her grip tightening on her son’s shoulder, mouth settling into a rigid line. _Could be anything, but..._

“I don’t understand,” Calliope shakes her head, ignoring Lea as he spouts off a list of qualities necessary to be worthy of Isa: _down to cuddle, comfortable removing the stick from his ass, aware that he may talk about his window box garden for hours on end, good at distracting him from homework, willing to accompany to the gym at dawn, fond of or ambivalent to sailing, able to give excellent, hot massages and incredible tongue,_ and she stops listening there.  “Ienzo, should be here.”

After the events of the morning, the implication is inherent. _What if something happened to him?_

“Lucky prick’s probably just too cocky to bother.” Lea offers a chuckle devoid of any sincerity. He would like to believe that it’s nothing. “His name’s been written on that list since the King adopted him.”

Isa watches Ansem and the captain exchange positions at the podium, and on a whim, pulls Lea by the fabric of the shirt more tightly to his side. “Or perhaps he simply knows something we don’t.”

Lea’s brows rise, but he presses his hand against the small of Isa’s back, rubbing slow circles with his thumb, and commits to let Calliope be, his green gaze zeroing in on his king.  

“What does the moon say?”

Isa’s eyes do not stray from the crown to the thin white crescent faintly visible against a cloudless horizon. “Nothing.”

*      *

Xehanort strikes an imposing figure with his back to the front entry of the castle, stretched like a shadow against the light of the outside world he is but a few steps from joining. His silver hair stands as a beacon, drawing Even closer, marking the man as alien to the small crowd in his midst, and the larger one he will join momentarily as well.

Even must speak with him first. His steps grow quicker, his scowl more impatient, but he need not worry. He feels Xehanort’s uncanny golden irises lock onto his chest like he can see through to his jutting ribs and the rapidly beating organ they protect.

The narrowing of Xehanort’s eyes tell Even he recognizes his tardiness, but he speaks nothing of it, not yet, instead making sharp gestures to begin dismissing his attending servants, each easily a foot shorter than he.

Despite the amnesiac’s dubious origin, his posture and jaw structure brag good breeding, and the castle’s servants have taken to following his orders without question, eager to please as if he had anything to his name other than Ansem’s favor.

The servant fussing at the violet bow crossing Xehanort’s collar bone above a starched white button down is the first to go, nodding to Even when she notices his approach, though he can hear her footsteps quicken as she passes him.

He recalls a time when he would have known her entire romantic history by virtue of the fact that Braig did not know how to still his tongue. He hasn’t the time for such trivialities these days, but there are moments he wonders. Especially moments like these when steps quicken and expressions still. Some find him—his cardiac and neural research—unnerving or repulsive. Others have failed to meet his expectations and dealt with the corresponding scathing or mild rebukes to their overseers.

Xehanort sends an elderly man off next, scrawling a final swirl of ink onto a label affixed to the set of room keys destined for Ansem’s newest apprentices. Xehanort and Even had a warm welcome planned.

 _Had_ , echoes in Even’s mind, as the man serves him a hasty bow, keys jangling brightly, unaware of their future neglect.

The final dismissal takes up the entire remaining span of Even’s approach. A slight boy with delicate features and mint colored hair who, through some incomprehensible attachment, has never seen the back of Xehanort’s hand or the underside of his smile, receives a squeeze to the shoulder and strict orders to relay a message to the captain of the guard chastising whoever had abandoned their station by the front entrance.

Even had noted a score of vacancies in the castle halls himself, part of the reason he had difficulties ascertaining Xehanort’s location. It has not occurred to him to report them, however, with the crisis in the courtyard and the day’s festivities.

_Contrary to the belief of the general populous, I am not a complete misanthrope._

The boy muffles his quick smile with a solemn nod and races off, the thin soles of his boots slapping unpleasantly against the harsh cobblestone. Even wants to chastise the hooligan’s reckless departure but Xehanort wears a distant expression, almost, _amused?_ and Even curtails the urge.

“I trust you were able to add all of the desired names to Ansem’s list?” Xehanort’s words have the slow easy pace of confidence though they hiss low with discretion, curling around the bends in the cobblestones like snakes.

“No need.” Even eyes his companion warily, shaking his head as though it might dispel the sensation of fingernails scratching into the back of his neck. “All already selected.”

Xehanort inclines his head in the direction of the dungeon, where a handful of the perspective candidates were once destined to spend the rest of their days. “Including…?”

“The penniless guttersnipes,” Even can feel the disgust puckering his cheeks, “yes. Hard to believe there are gods when magic goes to the likes of _them_.”

Xehanort fluffs the bow at his throat and tugs at the lapels his lab coat, the smirk on his face feather light. “We know what they say about one man’s trash, Even.”

Even’s own smirk is unrestrained, laughter filters out, grating at Xehanort’s ears. “Burn it?”

Xehanort paces from the door and the light shifts across his face and away again. “I myself rose up from nothing.”

“Of course.” Even smothers his chuckle with a sneer and quickly schools this to neutral, because a neutral expression is all Xehanort seems to respect. Properly chastised, he nods his head. “I referred only to those delinquents and the grief they have... ”

Xehanort looks no less appeased.

Even starts again, “I only meant…” Shakes his head again, pin straight white-blonde hair brushing his shoulders, distracting Xehanort, deepening his scowl.

Even quits, eyes darting to the side, though the servants have not, and likely will not, return for a time. “Regardless. There is more.”

Xehanort nods, twirls his hand to indicate Even continue, and now that he is here, Even is loath to do so. _Xehanort won’t like it._

“His Majest—”

Xehanort interrupts with a smile that could almost be mistaken for comforting, “I have already sought the approval of His Majesty on my commendations.”

“Well,” Even tilts his head, mimics the smile, though it may cost him later, “it would appear he’s changed his mind.”

“He,” Xehanort gives an uncharacteristic sputter, “ _what?_ ”

“He grows suspicious of us,” Even drawls, eyes darting around again. He takes another step from the broad castle entry, which Xehanort is quick to copy, drawing a step closer, into Even’s typically generous circle of personal space. “Perhaps we ought not go against his wishes at all.”

“We,” Xehanort claws his hand into Even’s shirt front and stares into his eyes, gold glower as impossible to return as the sun’s, “must.”  

Even feels a choked sound leave his throat involuntarily and Xehanort releases his shirt, pats his chest and lowers his palms to his pockets looking the portrait of a mild-mannered academic once more, “This will not do. The longer we wait to open the door—”

“I am well aware,” Even snaps and watching the muscles tense in Xehanort’s jaw once more, eases up, “I trust you have a contingency plan?”

Xehanort exhales slowly through his nose and leans back into a pillar, cocking his head like a cat that’s heard a cricket, though Even’s ears pick up only the notes of the Radiant Garden anthem drifting in through the break in the heavy doors.

“Your trust is well placed, as ever,” Xehanort concedes. “Here he comes now, the Lord of the Guttersnipes, himself.”

Even inhales sharply, “I gather you couldn’t possibly mean…” The limited set of possibilities dwindles as raucous laughter erupts from the shadows at the far end of the corridor.

“Braig,” Xehanort calls, sweeping a wide sleeve forward in greeting, eyes blazing, smile black as the dirt Even suspects comprises the newcomer’s brain, heart, and soul, “kind of you to join us.”  

*     *

Isa, Lea, and Calliope clutch at each other, grinning at the whoops that go up around them as Ansem takes the stand, scarcely keeping their own anxious cries in their throats. Their brains race with possibilities anchored in a single question. 

_ What if...  _

 


	8. Sanctuary

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I made some aesthetic boards for my characters (links) and an Axel x Saix playlist (end notes) so I thought I would post them here if anyone wants to check them out [Lea](https://complicatedandstained.tumblr.com/post/181122974546/l-e-a-come-here-ill-make-it-all-stop-isa)   [Isa](https://complicatedandstained.tumblr.com/post/181152981121/i-s-a-i-know-i-wont-forget-you-believe-me)  [Elrena](https://complicatedandstained.tumblr.com/post/181184089677/e-l-r-e-n-a-im-busy-go-hit-your-head)   [Braig](https://complicatedandstained.tumblr.com/post/181184089051/b-r-a-i-g-if-theyre-gone-theyre-gone-no)

The memory of a late afternoon months ago comes crawling intently back, twitching like a Shadow.

The weather had been shit, and Isa and Calliope had bundled in technicolor scarves, dark knit hats, and sturdy leather gloves before setting out along the worn mud path to the outermost reaches of South Side.

The friends bumped into each other with every step, striking a pattern of friction between their shoulders. Few words puffed to life in the frigid air between them, their pact to share body heat unspoken, their objective from the academy’s community service coordinator clear: Go to the church. Exterminate the heartless. Repair what damages you can.

On the outside the small chapel appeared serene, picturesque, even, nestled in a verdant, shallow valley and backed by a thicket of wood. The chapel itself, built of stone tinged green with hints of the oncoming spring, beckoned them forward, its door bordered on each side by a bowing tree, uppermost branches curling from beneath the stones and stretching upward to nod against a breeze, pink buds shivering, not unlike the visitors. The trunks had been mortared to the walls so that the church became a kind of living thing.

Calliope cooed over the architecture, uncommon even by Radiant Garden standards. The chapel’s distant location hardly made it the most well-attended in the kingdom, especially that time of year when the draft got in, but she could see why people made the trek.

“It’s the finest church in the kingdom.” Isa said it with a certain amount of lofty pride. “It used to be something of a sanctuary for us.”

Calliope hummed her agreement. She didn’t need to ask to know that “us” referred to him and Lea, but she did wonder if  “sanctuary” meant a peaceful place to pray or a secluded place to hide.

“If the trees die the building could collapse,” she said and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, his gaze, chilly blue-grey like the late day, locked onto the chapel.

“Hm.”

“But they don’t, do they?” She shifted her eyes to the feat of nature in question. “There’s something beautiful about that kind of trust.”

His smile flickered to life only to shrivel as he noted the unusual quiet settled around the greenery outlining the holy place. Silence—devoid of warbling birds or rustling beasts—a sure sign of the heartless they had been warned awaited them inside.

The sword he had borrowed from the armory for the occasion felt somehow heavier in its hilt as they picked their way down the path, boots occasionally sticking in the muck.

“Perfect for a wedding, isn’t it?” Her voice was bubbly and light.

For a moment Isa imagined Lea in the doorway, immaculately put together, a tight, well cut suit, flaming hair pulled back, straightening a tie or playing with a thin, lace trimmed white veil, free hand dripping white rose petals.

_Fuck._

She wasn’t supposed to talk to him like this—to propose…

Isa grimaced, snatches of conversation, raised eyebrows, meaningful side glances flashing through the forefront of his mind, not the least of which had come from his own mother. “Calliope, I _have_ been meaning to…” He fixated on the smile on her face, at how she kept walking as he stuttered, rested her back against the doorway to the church, “I know what people are saying about you and me, but...”  
  
“Relax,” she crossed her arms, giggled, a smirk pulling up at the side of her mouth, as she tugged at a branch prodding at her elbow, “I’m just playing with you.”

He stepped closer, the coldness seeping into his chest and he shivered, thinking unbidden about the way Lea could chase away a chill with the slightest brush of his palm, how Calliope deserved someone like Lea, someone who knew how to comfort, who adored her, and not, _well, whatever the fuck this is._

“You are so dear to me; you have to know that,” he settled his gloves on her upper arms and rubbed his thumbs like Lea might do, “but even with things with Lea the way they are, I still…”

“You still love him.” The smirk grew and curling violet bangs bounced beneath the rim of her knit cap as she tilted her head to the side, eying the meadow instead of this vulnerable man, “Isa, I know.”

He released her at the twinge of he didn’t know what in her voice, “I was going to say I’m still homosexual.” He wasn’t about to pretend otherwise, to play house. “ _That_ and I’m still considering joining the guard, and so,” he inclined his head, eyes narrowing, “are you.”  

“Sure, sure.” She reached behind her for the circular bronze door pull and gave it a tug. “ _And_ you still love him.”

Isa shook his head, well aware pretending was just going to get more and more impossible, but unwilling to break and tell someone before _Lea_ and his loose tongue had done it. “Let’s not go down that road.”  

 

The door gave easily, shifting open with a world weary creak. At first glance the chapel appeared much the same as ever, rows of bare bone wooden benches and kneelers, fair wood bleached white with sun, backlit by a grand circular window of clear crystal inset with a single iron flower mandala. Twin stone staircases led up to a raised altar alight with sunbeams.  

On second glance the shock set in; a battle had already been waged here. White claw scrapes dragged through the frescos on either side of the chapel, two candles standing sentry at the entrance had been overturned, wax seeping into the polished rounds of tree trunks the floor had been tiled with. Black smudges of heartless blood and heavy nicks stained the benches left upright, and the silent air bore a singed scent like incense mixed with the thick, mulled wine taste of darkness.

“Gods almighty.” Calliope pushed out of the doorway, open-mouthed, and wondered if the altar had always been cracked down the center. She tucked one of her swords into its heavy leather hilt and gestured with the other. “Looks like somebody beat us to the dance floor.”

Isa didn’t reply, sniffing once more and then striding forward, toward a shadowed alcove Calliope hadn’t noticed, the only space in the room casting light aside from the broad stained glass window. Candles of every color sat sweating, two neat rows in black iron sconces. Above them glowed a segment of the fresco depicting a young angel, his stylized golden hair fringed with a bronze halo. Tense muscles shaped loose, creamy white garb and grief tainted an otherwise gorgeous face.

Isa could only think of one person who would wander into the holy space in the middle of the week and then successfully take out a hoard of heartless.

Before the candles sat a rough kneeler, on the kneeler knelt a hunched figure, red hair hastily tied back, head bowed. Chakram laid on the ground on either side of him, glistening with ebony heartless gunk.

 _Gods, no._ Isa thought, quickening his pace. _Not this. Not here._

Narrower inspection revealed shaking shoulders and erratic breaths. Isa’s throat felt dried out and raw.

Lea didn’t react to the light, steady patter of Isa’s boots approaching, just mumbled, “If you’re another heartless, I’m really not in the mood.”

The flippancy caught at Isa’s boots for a second and he was unable to formulate a reply before Lea continued, strength returning to a tear-strained voice,

“Don’t get me wrong, I’ll kick your ass if I have to. Might not look like much at the moment, but this is my church, and maybe you got hold of the real deal, but you are _not_ touching this fucking painting.”

_Ventus._

“Lea…” Isa’s voice cracked.

Lea seized one of the chakrams and paused seconds from whipping it toward the man just behind him. The chakram hit the wooden floor with a sharp clank, mere inches from where it had been.

“It’s alright, dearest. They’re gone. The heartless are gone.”   

Up close, Isa could see the sheen of sweat across Lea’s brow despite the temperature, watched the tremor return to his shoulders as his eyes returned to the painting.

Isa dropped a kiss on Lea’s head and a hand on his shoulder. “How is he?” he whispered, thumb massaging the tense muscles below his thin coat.

Isa couldn’t quite say it. After so many heated arguments, the name would taste of bitter salt water tears.

_Ventus._

Lea turned a church key over in his hands and gazed up into the startling, wide-eyed gaze of the winged creature, a frosted, oceanic green kind of blue. “We’ll never know, will we?”

The air hung heavy between them as they remembered the warm flicker of light they met one restless summer afternoon. How quickly they made up their minds to nestle him into their lives. How quickly those plans were extinguished when he vanished like a puff of smoke.  

“Praying for him?”

“Not sure I know how.” Lea’s flippancy dripped of insincerity and hurt.

Isa set a kiss on his forehead. _It’s just us, Lea. You don’t have to be brave._

Their eyes met upside down, and Lea released a slow breath. “Trying I guess.”

Lea glanced back up and Isa met the angel’s lonely gaze as well. “You have one sinner’s heart with you, Ventus,” Isa told the angel, “...wherever you are.”

 

When Calliope could meander forward no more slowly, she seated herself on the arm of a nearby pew. The honest sort, she could not bring herself to pretend she was not watching the tender gestures and warm whispers Isa used to comfort his recent ex. She merely crossed her ankles, sheathed her second sword, folded her hands, and set to waiting and gaping.

_A bad ass like Lea down in the dirt on his knees smearing his make up over a painting? A smooth, selfish prick like Lea accepting the comforting ministrations of the attractive and still very into him ex he dumped?_

_Lea discussing… theology? Lea crying?_   _Lea praying?_

Lea?

_What the actual fuck, gentlemen?_

“Ventus,” she cleared her throat and the intensity of the stares leveled at her _hurt_. She inclined her head toward the bit of fresco above the prayer nook. “Is he… some kind of god?”

Isa felt himself grin, a low chuckle curling from his throat.

Lea revealed a glimpse of teeth, an almost grin. “Maybe in another life…”

Calliope shivered and forced herself to remember Lea had never done a thing against her—had had every right to want to break up with Isa to become a guard, or otherwise. Isa could do better. Even if he claimed otherwise. Claimed Lea would do anything he asked, like there would be some upcoming life or death contest of loyalty.

“The angel there is a servant of the sun goddess.” Isa fluttered a few fingers toward the beatific woman with glowing onyx skin and amber hair, her body emitting rays of blinding bronze light and then back to one of her many wing-ed attendings, each clutching a flower, symbolizing the usual things: prosperity, peace, kindness, generosity. “Just bears an uncanny resemblance to a friend of ours.”

Isa won’t ever be able to rid himself of the haunted look on Lea’s face when he told him the blooms the angel Ventus clutched loosely in his palm, like he might let them float away, were forget me nots.     

Calliope looked puzzled as she climbed to her feet, stepping in to to get a better look at the handsome, youthful being, “And here I thought I knew all of your friends.”

“This one didn’t stick around for long,” Lea allowed, eyes flashing to her, past her, distant, and he turned to sit with the kneeler at his back and drew his knees to his chest. The candles above cast light across his face, striped with shadows as his hands swished to illustrate his anecdote. “Ven was this melancholy little homeless kid we met in the square by the fountain.”

Using a handkerchief to clear away some heartless gunk, Isa perched neatly on an overturned bench between the two and crossed his ankles. “Lea saw a sad puppy and wanted to take it home,” he summarized. “The three of us were probably about fifteen at the time. Maybe Ven was younger; he was so small...”

Lea’s gloves lifted in a loose shrug and they all blinked at the new tears rent in them from combat. “’S’why I wanted to cheer him up.”

“He tried to jump him,” Isa corrected with a fond eye roll, “like little boys do.”

“I challenged him to a spar,” Lea clarified voice taking on more irritation than his expression held as he glared challengingly at Isa for a moment, before turning to Calliope to emphasize, “for _fun_. He loved it. And I went easy on him.”

Isa knew better than to question the absurd exaggerations, just snorted and paused long enough for Calliope to lean toward him with raised eyebrows. “Lea got the shit beat out of him,” he deadpanned.

“Went _easy_ on him,” Lea insisted quickly, and then nodded to concede their joint skepticism. “Okay _fine_.” His hands directed them to pause, rolled to indicate a tumble. “So he knocked me on my ass. _But_ when he went to help me up, I swept in, smooth as hell, and kissed him on the cheek.” His grin was wry and momentary.

Calliope’s mouth shifted open and she stared at Isa expecting anything but his tired smile and insistence, “He kissed _you_ on the cheek.”

“We _connected_.”

“What do you mean?” Calliope interrupted, dark lips pursing. Lea had as many bad habits as red hairs on his head, but his dedication to Isa had always been singular—remarkably so considering the attention she had seen the pair of their gaunt, pretty faces get when they went out on the town.

“Dunno.” Lea shook his head, rethinking his assertion as he plucked one of his chakrams from the dirt and flicked a bit of the gunk off toward a scowling Isa. “I just knew we’d be friends forever.”

“Lea met his soulmate,” Isa asserted tonelessly, dabbing at the gob on his skinny khaki trouser leg and kicking out his opposite leg to prod Lea hard in the shoulder.

Lea whacked the foot away, laughter thin and airy. “Shut up.”

“Right as we left, he told me Ventus was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen.”

Lea slid one chakram back in its leather crossbody holster, and enunciated with a broad sweep of the other. “You _agreed_ with me!”

“I’m not blind.” Isa’s attention shifted back to Calliope out of cursory politeness, but she felt as if she may as well have been somewhere else entirely, “And then he got mad at me and wouldn’t say why, but I knew it was because you thought I thought _you_ were the most adorable.”

Lea preened momentarily, trailing fingers through his hair, hyper aware of the flyaways from his fight—unaware of the flush to his freckled cheeks from the exertion, the dark smudges around his eyes from the tears.

“I was just fuckin’ with you,” Isa continued with a low, soft crudeness Calliope knew he reserved for Lea alone, and which made her vaguely uncomfortable accordingly. “ _You_ on the other hand...”

_So this is it, the splinter caught between their intertwined fingers. A visitation by the angel Ventus. Lea head over heels for another kid, unable to let it go even now because… why?_

“So,” she fumbled, tone carefully neutral, “you…  dated Ventus?”

“No…” Lea trailed off to stare back to the painting, no more tears, just an immense sadness. “That’s ridiculous.”

“He went missing,” Isa concluded for him, like he wasn’t sure Lea would be able to.

Lea reached up for a candle and cupped it between his palms, tilting to swish around the molten wax. “We scoured the kingdom for that kid for days. No stone unturned. No lock unpicked. No forbidden access sign un-ignored…”

“Weeks,” Isa mouthed to Calliope and her concern deepened.

Isa had accused Lea of having a crush on Ven. Lea had accused Isa of being glad Ven was gone.

Isa wasn’t sure either of them were wrong. Which did not help matters.

Of course once Isa had learned the enormity of his disappearance, had seen the Unversed in the streets and learned Braig had disappeared too, he had changed his mind.

For the most part.

Regardless, he had looked _everywhere_ , talked to _everyone_. They both had.

“Eventually the Guard told us it was a lost cause. Gone without a trace,” Lea concluded, extinguishing the candle flame between his fingertips, and watching the smoke curl up. “We never… saw him again.”

“And you think that the heartless…” she confirmed, softer then, unsure how to speak to a Lea anything less than a thousand percent cocky and confident.

Lea stood and leaned in to press his palm against the angel’s chest.  “We don’t know.” Lea’s fingers scrunched against the paint as if he were trying to grasp a hand and then abruptly he was turning back toward them, replacing the candle and brushing off his palms.

A playful smile lit his lips before he continued, “Scrooge McDuck told us he was an alien. So maybe he hopped onto a Gummi ship and took to the stars.”

Isa reached his side and drew his lips close to Lea’s ear, “I hope so. I hope he’s out there—that he comes back one day. Really. I do.”

Lea turned away, eyes scrunching shut for a moment. Pained, Isa moved to give him space and was halted by a claw digging into his sleeve. “I know, babe. I know you do.”

Holding each other, they turned toward the chapel, dimly aware of their looming clean up responsibilities.

“Maybe,” Calliope said, still seated, gazing at the young angel in his halo of candlelight, “he’s out there wondering about his lost friends too.”

“Maybe he got us memorized,” Isa replied.

Lea’s solemness dissolved into a goofy grin at the thought, and Isa ran a hand through the dense red spikes of Lea’s ponytail before tugging straight the man’s faded yellow scarf.

As Lea set to work righting the pew Isa had risen from, Isa smiled at Calliope and wondered how she always managed to have exactly the right words.

She smiled back and wondered how two trees could stay strong enough to support the weight of an entire church. 

*      *

“Radiant Garden, good morning,” Ansem has a deep resonant voice, which carries effortlessly over the gathered crowd. His voice reassures, level and sage. His posture commands, regal, with an even gait as he paces.

“And it is a _good_ morning. On this morning you witnessed, some of you for the first time, the heartless threat that continues to plague our abundant nation. But you have also witnessed a great triumph as two dauntless young men of our academy’s graduating class led civilians in vanquishing these monstrosities.”

Hearts pounds in the young men’s bruised rib cages. Surely, they think, if Ansem mentions their names now, he cannot refuse them positions among his apprentices.

Ansem’s smile and tone grow wry in preparation to say what his captain of the guard had refused to, “And all this before my Guard even arrived. Isa the Azure and Lea son of Fletcher…”

The young men are pushed forward by their friends until they fall under the king’s gaze. Shock and pity for their bedraggled appearances crosses his face in a brief but solemn flicker, and his next proclamation is all the more genuine, “Your kingdom thanks you from the depths of its heart.”

*      *

Not everyone read the mission descriptions before going out for community service, but Isa always did, and his preparation managed to save himself, Calliope, and Lea more than a few burns and scrapes along the way.

It was not every day their young service coordinator, Aerith, used the phrase “raging hoard,” but apparently she had not been exaggerating. The damage done seemed twice as severe upon closer inspection, and the slight limp in Lea’s step before he found a stale potion rummaging through a hidden cabinet behind the altar confirmed the damage—perhaps more than his complaints.

“You two slackers couldn’t have gotten here _ten_ minutes earlier?”  

Calliope unloaded repair supplies from her pack, while Lea unearthed cleaning equipment from the hidden cabinet and a small side closet in the sacristy. As Isa surveyed the damage and penned a list of repairs to be made, Calliope lined her supplies on a pew bench and Lea returned, powdered with dust and arms laden with a broom and mop with curved handles, a pail that was more rust than metal, bottles of cleaning potions with gook dried down the sides, and perhaps thirty towels.

Calliope’s eyes widened as he deposited the supplies in a heap in the rubble next to her neatly laid out array. “What did you shake down a Moogle back there?”  

Lea laughed. “Those days are behind me.” He spun the broom, still in his hand, like a child would flip a twig. “Just been around this block a time or two.”

Isa surveyed the supplies before him, prodding at Lea’s pile with a toe, and double checking them against his list.

“I didn’t take the two of you for the religious type.” Calliope stepped up beside Isa, who tilted his clipboard for her to examine.

“We’re not.”

Lea cleared his throat, raising his brows meaningful at Isa, who sighed, lowering the board and correcting.

“ _I’m_ not.” Isa flipped the hair back from his shoulders, and gestured vaguely toward the red-head, who had propped the broom over his shoulder like a rifle. “Lea has… spiritual leanings.”

Lea cocked his head, considering the turn of phrase and shrugging as if to indicate that it was near enough.

Calliope turned to him, curious, but as he was not inclined to explain, he stole the clipboard from Isa’s hand and pretended to look it over.

Isa, unimpressed with these childish aversion tactics, swiped back the clipboard, tapping Lea in the chin with it, smirking at his open mouth, and strutting away.

“He believes in reincarnation.” This Isa said with a respect that contrasted his actions. He knew Lea’s faith was genuine if a bit vague.  

“And you believe in the moon,” Lea dodged playfully, his face turned skyward to the sloped ridges of the chapel ceiling, _the only thing undamaged, come to think._

Isa paused, midstride, to catch his eye and share a grin at the memory of a thousand stories, in which Isa’s father detailed his supposed lunar powers of divination, visions in which the moon had warned him of thrashing storms or guided him safely to shore. “My father does, at any rate.”

Isa lifted a boot to continue his pace, pausing to stare at the gummy black residue sticking to the bottom, “And he would be most displeased with our level of productivity thus far.”

“Hey. Speak for yourself.” Lea flipped the broom forward once more and pantomimed whacking heartless with it.

Isa gave this a half nod of acknowledgement before tapping his list, continuing, “First, the three of us will get all the furniture upright. Then Calliope will sweep up the glass and rubble, Lea will wash up the blood and gore, and I’ll see what can be done about the rest of it.”  
  
“Aw, c’mon, Ice,” Lea leaned against the broom like it was a crutch, “you know whoever washes up is gonna end up soaked.”

“Good,” Isa smirked over his shoulder before picking his way over to a front window with a shadow sized hole through it. “You’re filthy.”

Lea scoffed but offered the broom to the woman beside him, who traded it for sympathetic smile and tugged at his dusty sleeve. “Just take your coat off, Lea.”

“Yeah…” Lea muttered, fingers rubbing at the back of his head to free a cloud of dust as he leaned down to look for a cleaning potion.

Isa raised a hand to measure the approximate width of the chunk taken out of the window. “Might as well take your shirt off, too.”  

Isa heard a clatter behind him as the supplies dropped from Lea’s hands.

Isa peeked over his shoulder, expecting to see Lea fumbling for what he had dropped. Instead Lea’s eyes were locked on Isa. He had peeled off his coat and hung it from the edge of the pew and had his long sleeved tunic pulled halfway up his chest.

“I’m game if you are.” Lea winked at Isa, whose mouth fell slightly open, because Calliope was _right there._

For a moment Isa considered stripping his shirt off and kissing Lea where he stood, but even if he wasn’t thinking about it now, Lea would be upset later if they failed to uphold their pretend break up in front of someone as influential to the student body, as big of a competition for the apprenticeships, as Class President Calliope.

“Why do you have to make things difficult?” the tone torn from Isa’s throat was scathing. “You can’t just change your mind whenever you want.”

Lea stepped back, arms barring his chest. “You started it.”

Frowning, Calliope took this as her cue to intervene, stepping between them, and saying lightly, “Heavy lifting first, cat fights later, gentlemen.” They froze as she dropped her own scarves and coat atop Isa’s, and indicated several overturned benches. “Less talking more stripping. Let’s go, cadets.”  

*      *

“Lea and Isa are members of the first graduating class of Radiant Academy in which each student has been instructed in combat. They are also members of a program to empower students who would not otherwise have had the opportunity to attend our great academy. Like phoenixes we have watched these and other promising young men and women rise from the ashes.”

_Ashes?_

_Poor._

_Ansem has drawn the attention of every being in the kingdom to them and then struck them with a brand. They could be brilliant, successful, heroic, but at the end of the day they still came from nothing, poor, ashes._

_Nobodies._

Lesser men might have burned with shame. Lea and Isa raise their chins and hold their tongues. _Even nobodies have their pride. Especially nobodies._

*      *

Hours after they began cleaning the chapel, Lea laid back against a polished bench, one hand to his forehead in a distraught manner as Isa toweled water and grime off his ribs. “If I’da known my evening would be spent like this, I would have gone to the bar after school today.”

Isa’s eyes narrowed, one hand settling flat on Lea’s abdomen as he leaned forward, towel raised, and met teasing green eyes. “Any more whining, and I’ll wring this out in your hair.”

“Alright.” Lea raised his hands in surrender, and Isa smiled smugly. “Alright.” One of Lea’s gloves caught the small of Isa’s back and pulled him down, and Isa realized a half second too late, collapsing on Lea as Lea grabbed the gritty towel and twisted cold water onto the blue strands at the back of Isa’s bare neck.

Calliope watched a fair amount of tumbling, coughing, and sputtering, before the towel was flung across the church, and the young men collapsed in a heap on the ground, laughing into each other’s necks.

She thought, not for the first time, that perhaps the reason they had been working so hard to avoid each other since their breakup was less that they couldn’t stand each other, and more that they couldn’t resist each other.

“Okay, enough, enough.”

“Get off.”

“You get off.”

“What were you thinking? We’re in a bloody church. _His_ church.”

“What was _I_ thinking…?”

 _Or perhaps,_ Calliope reconsidered, _not._

Calliope stepped up between the two, dragged her arms beneath theirs and hauled them up. “C’mon, boys, that’s enough playing in the dirt for one day.” She released Isa first and then stepped to face Lea, whose smile had sobered though his pale cheeks were flushed with exertion beneath their smatter of freckles.

“Although, I am curious,” she tried to stop thinking how much he looked like a little kid playing in a park. She didn’t like him, dammit. “What _are_ you doing here, Lea? I mean, Aerith sent us here on an emergency service assignment for student council, but how did you know?”

“Didn’t know. I told you,” Lea’s arm slipped from hers and he resumed his seat on the pew and began to pull on his tunic. “We come here all the time.”

“Because of...Ventus?” She set her hand on the pew beside him, fingertips brushing against a sizable nick in the wood that Isa had sanded down.

“Well,” Lea nodded, gaze traveling to the painted angel on the other side of the chapel, as he tightened the strap on his chakram holster, “that’s why here, this place. We volunteer.” He looked back to her, smile tight, “See, the church helps fund the tuition of low-income students, so Aerith, says we owe it to them…”

He could still hear the choice words he had had for the kind woman with her soft pink ribbons and bows and gentle disposition when she shared that tidbit. Lea and Isa would have to spend one free night a week for the next several years making nice. He had never seen anyone quite so disappointed in him. A pang of regret hit him in the jaw, and he flinched. “And, I guess we do.”

“It’s our duty,” Isa nodded, seating himself beside Lea and setting a hand on his shoulder, proud of the progress he had made. “We want to help ensure others will be given the same opportunities we were.”  
  
Calliope frowned at Isa. In class and on council, he spoke with such intelligence, formality, and confidence. Even though she had met his family, sat in their quaint, cramped kitchen...  “Sometimes I forget that you’re…” She cut herself off as Lea drew his arm across the back of the pew above Isa, possessive, defensive. Calliope realized she was starting to sound like one of her mother’s stereotypes and backtracked. “It’s wonderful—that you give back like that.”

“The high priestess wouldn’t have it any other way,” Lea replied, eye roll tempered by a fond smile.

“I think she’s still hoping you and I will take our holy orders,” Isa mused, leaning his head back against Lea’s arm like the notion itself were exhausting.

“You two, priests?” Calliope laughed though the guys did not join her. Priests and priestesses were the only souls in Radiant Garden who took stricter vows than the King’s Guard: pacifism, chastity, charity… “She’s clearly never seen either of you with a weapon in your hand.”

“It’s not supposed to be easy,” the young men chorused, solemn, as if the priestess were saying it right beside them for the millionth time, and then broke into giggles at the overlap.

Calliope smiled because they smiled and slid into the pew in front of theirs, leaning across its back and tilting her head in consideration. “Well, if the apprenticeships don’t work out…”

Another snuff of laughter left Isa’s throat.

Lea laughed and covered his face with a palm, muttering, “Oh gods, no.”

Calliope rested her chin on her arms. “So what then?” Her tone quieted. “You must have put some thought into it. I know I have. If everything falls apart, well… ”

Both men opened their mouths hesitantly, but she raised her hands to stop them, grin broadening. “Wait. Let’s guess.”

Lea shut his eyes and did not try near hard enough to suppress a groan, for which Isa elbowed him mildly in the gut.

“No, no, it’ll be fun,” she insisted, hoping a game would lighten the gray mood of the dying day and combat their exhaustion. “We can each guess each other’s contingency plans, and then whoever is the furthest has to ask Aeleus to fix the crack in the altar—for free.”

Lea opened his eyes, lips scrunching. “What kind of a punishment is that? I already told you he’d say yes. Stone work is literally his hobby.”

“He is arguably the most intimidating guard I have ever met,” she objects, standing on the seat of the pew to model his height, holding her arms out to indicate the width of his shoulders.  

Lea shook his head, but Isa laughed outright, nodding.

“Very well, we agree to your terms.” Isa folded his hands, as if he and Calliope were still sitting in a diplomacy lesson.

“ _We._ ” Lea tossed up a hand and slumped in the pew until his back was on the seat, and his legs sprawled beneath the next two pews up. “Whatever.”

He didn’t particularly feel like opening up about what would happen if his life’s aspirations fell apart and he were left penniless and without prospects—but since he was going to offer to speak to Aeleus anyway… 

“But Isa’s first.”

*      *

“These two young men, as well as their impressive classmates, are a credit to their academy, to their communities, and to their families,” Ansem decrees.

“Each generation grows more capable of handling itself against the heartless threat than the one before it. The youth of our nation no longer need fear stepping outside into the shadows.”  

Ansem almost believes what he’s saying when he words it this way.

“It is for this reason that I stand before you on this morning, on this day. A day on which, for years, notice has been posted for my apprentices, on which I have taken the best and brightest the academy has to offered, stealing them away, honing their skills and asking of their service to the crown. Upon deep reflection, it is, a little selfish of me, I know. I hear your laughter. You think that I jest.”

Ansem surveys the crowd of former students before him and watches hope shift to confusion, uncertainty. He reminds himself he is doing what he must to protect them, his apprentices, himself. He must.  

“I do not. I will not steal from you again.”

*      *

“Easy,” Lea said and flicked his wrist, in response to Calliope’s prompting, “If Isa doesn’t get earn a spot on team science, he’ll join the Royal Guard.”

Sometimes Lea thought it would be easier that way. Both of them constricted by the same puppet strings of the law.

“That has always been the plan,” Isa inclined his head, though he did not sound particularly impressed. “But if I weren’t selected?”

Lea laughed, eyes flicking over the familiar bulky muscles in Isa’s arms and chest. “Not gonna happen, sweetie.”

Isa flicked him in the shoulder. “That’s not the game. What if I didn’t? The royals,” he gestured as if they were gathered in the nearby pews, “decide we’re nothing but impoverished trash, and they don’t want us.”

Lea sobered as well.

“I—” Calliope began, upset the game she had suggested to lighten the mood had taken this turn. Of course _Isa and I—probably even Lea—will be chosen._

Isa raised his palm to silence her. “What then?” he insisted, leaning in toward an uncertain Lea.  

Lea thought of late nights when he had returned from bartending to find Isa still at his desk penning an essay by moonlight and a dying lamp; early mornings when he tugged Lea to the gym by the collar because they couldn’t skip leg day. “All the other researchers in the kingdom would be begging to have you on their staffs.”

Isa’s frown forced Lea to sit up straighter.

“Pity there _aren’t_ any other reputable researchers in the kingdom, then.”

Lea’s expression fell. _How did I not know that?_ “What else is there, then?” He pondered it for a beat, his feet crossing. “Is there a job where you get to tell everybody what to do? Isa’d be _great_ at that.”

Isa looked more than a bit like he wanted to smack him.

“Yes!” Calliope agreed to all three of their surprise. “I’m picturing him as a professor at Radiant,” she hurried to propose before the air could grow any colder. “You see it too, right? The thin rimmed glasses and the vest…” Calliope pantomimed the accessories.  

Isa winced and Lea perked up, leaning forward, with a man-eating grin. “I dunno. Don’t you think he’s too sexy to be a professor?” Lea shook his head as if dismissing the idea, as Calliope suppressed giggles. “It just wouldn’t be fair to all the hormonal upperclassmen.”

Isa leaned back, fingertips to temples as if he were getting a migraine. “Gods, Lea… worry about my sex appeal and not that we’d be broke.”

“One of us has to prioritize.”

Isa and Lea didn’t notice Isa said ‘we’ and Lea said ‘us’ like they had a future, and Calliope wasn’t about to correct them. All she could think was that thus far, Isa’s only concrete plan, should he lose the apprenticeship seemed to be to get right back together with Lea.

 _But that’s not going to happen_.

_And they’ll both be miserable if it does._

_It’s like no matter what they do they’re going to smash each other’s hearts._

Calliope realized they were waiting for her to say something. It was her game after all. She was struck by a sudden, selfless need to see them both happy, together. “Well, okay, Lea, money as no object… what then?”

Lea raised his brows, surprised that he was getting a chance to redeem himself and that she was making it so easy to boot, and slumped back down with his back to the seat of the pew.  “Simple.”

“Oh?” Isa leaned back, arms crossed, eager to hear whatever absurd new scheme had taken root in the past minute and a half.

“Flower shop.”

Isa and Calliope stared at him for a minute.

Calliope held the back of her pew and leaned back, as if she needed to look at Lea from a fresh angle to puzzle out what was going through his head. “You’re joking,” she decided.   

Lea shook his head, patting the other man’s thigh. “Isa, here, can name every tree and flower in the castle gardens, and he has these overflowing window boxes at his apartment that he fusses over day and night. When we were little, he used to twine wildflowers together and crown us kings of the clocktower…so, if jewels grew on trees, yeah…Isa’d open Radiant Garden’s most incredible flower shop.” Lea trailed off, rubbing at the back of his neck, as Isa leaned forward above him, staring, blue eyes clear, and said nothing. “Maybe I’m way off… ”

Isa leaned down and kissed him on the nose, privately delighting in the light pink flush that so rarely rose beneath his freckles. “It’s perfect,” he whispered.

For a moment Lea let himself melt beneath the press against his nose and the hands on his pec and abdomen. Then he pushed his fingertips against Isa’s chest. “Get off,” Lea grinned, “you’re embarrassing me.”

Isa held on for a minute longer, smirking. “Good.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Axel x Saix Playlist
> 
> Shame - Bastille  
> If You're Over Me - Years & Years  
> Drive - Oh Wonder  
> Is This Still Love - Danny Jones  
> Things We Lost in the Fire - Bastille  
> Moon Watcher - Ishi  
> Younger - A Great Big World  
> Without Me - Halsey  
> Gives You Hell - The All-American Rejects  
> Mars - Sleeping At Last


	9. Circus

_ They might be over,  _ Calliope reflected, flushing as she watched Mr. Let’s Not Go Down That Road, kissing the nose of Mr. I Don’t Know What the Hell I Want and getting shoved off for his troubles,  _ but I am still wheel number three.  _

“It’s getting late,” Calliope mumbled, not unkindly, glancing off at the grand window with the mandala design beyond the altar. The light filtering in shifted from goldenrod to burnt orange as the sun descended. “I ought to be off.” 

“Wait. Calliope,” Isa objected immediately, bolting upright, lines creasing his forehead. Lea followed soon after. 

“We haven’t finished our game yet,” Lea agreed, reaching out to bop the pom pom on her knit cap. “I want to hear what you two goodie two shoes think I’ve got up my sleeve.” Isa offered a slow smirk, and Lea prodded his ribs. “Fine, I want to hear what  _ Calliope _ thinks.”

Calliope looked to Isa for clarification, and he was all too happy to oblige. 

“He knows what I think—” 

Lea glared, mildly frosty, like the air grew the longer they sat still, heat puffing in front of their faces. “Don’t say it.” 

“You would be an excellent candidate,” Isa argued. His brows rose and his lips puckered like he was holding in a juicy secret. “And there’s Squall to consider.”

Calliope caught on at last and laughed, recalling the stoic, kind, hulking brunette two years ahead of them and trying to picture Lea interacting with him, like a lunatic and a brick wall. “He’s head of the People’s Guard, now, isn’t he? Squall Leonhart?”

Isa nodded. “Lea was in pieces.” 

“That’s it.” Lea dived at Isa, mercilessly, but Isa was ready, leaping out of his seat and leaving Lea sprawled out on his stomach, groaning. 

“I don’t understand.” Calliope glanced up as Isa slid into her pew and the smile they shared could perhaps, be considered conspiratorial. “Joining the People’s Guard sounds perfect for you, Lea.” 

Lea grunted, rolled onto his back, and covered his face with his elbow. “Your turn, Calliope.”   

“He thinks they’re a traitorous, vigilante disgrace to the Royal Guard and the entire kingdom,” Isa dished, smirk patronizing. “He thinks Squall is a fool for turning the Guard down to start it. He’s always idolized him.” 

Lea mumbled something into his arm. 

“Didn’t catch that, darling,” Isa leaned over the back of the pew and ran a knuckle down the man’s jaw. “Maybe if you weren’t moping like a child?”

“Mm,” Lea shifted his elbow so it covered only his eyes, “I said Leon was a fucking badass. We all idolized him.”

“Oh, undoubtedly.”  Isa’s eyes darted to the side, wondering which other model citizens Lea’s fellow delinquents looked up to.  _ Braig, perhaps? _

“And you?” Calliope prompted before Isa could prod at Lea or Lea’s bizarrely fragile mood could swing again. 

“The People’s Guard seem to think they are above the Guard’s Code and the Law. Without law and order, what’s to separate them from any other group of organized thugs on the street?” Isa straightens and puts his hand on his chin in consideration. “Then again, I see them in my neighborhood every day. It’s more than I can say for the Guard.” His thick indigo eyelashes appear as he glances down at the man in the pew below, and Calliope has the strange sense that for a moment, he’s seeing a child again as well—maybe two. “Lea knows that deep down. He’d come around if he had to.”  

“I was going to say they’re gullible, stuck-up, self-righteous pricks that work for almost nothing and take away the need for well-paid jobs on the Royal Guard,” Lea announced, with a quiet, betrayed kind of fury. It was the kind of thing he only said when he was alone or very, very drunk, and it turned his stomach. He sat up to gauge their responses. Frowns, but no denial. “But Isa’s not wrong.” Lea rubbed the back of his neck. “On either account.” 

Calliope blinked back a burn at her eyes. “Sorry, Lea. I hadn’t thought about it that way. I just see the good that they’re doing, and I know that that’s what you want to do.”

“Hey, I get it,” Lea waved the sentiment away with a signature careless smile. “Thanks, Cal.” 

Isa rose to his feet and brushed off his palms, face turned toward the largest window where orange lights melted to foggy lavender and a deep cobalt. “Shall we?”

His friends rose as well. Calliope began to fasten her crossbody belts and resheathed her swords. Lea picked his way over to the candles flickering in front of the portrait resembling Ventus, and Isa made his way toward a vase of flowers near the altar, plucking a single bloom.  

As Isa turned to face his friends again, he caught sight of Lea, shifting his hand above the lights. They rose and gathered into one flicker. Lea cupped his palm and cradled the flame for a long moment, light and shadow playing across the planes of his face. 

At the sound of Calliope and Isa approaching, Lea snapped his fingers and the flame extinguished.  

“Still a delinquent, I see.” Isa smirked as Lea looked up at him ruefully. 

“Well,” gently, he wrapped his hands around the fist Isa held out to him, “old habits and all that.” 

Together, they released a handful of blue-violet flower petals and watched them scatter across the candles, kneeler, and floor beneath the painted angel with Ventus’ face. 

*     *

Ansem closes his eyes for a long moment, once again visualizing the threat he must protect his kingdom from: black wisps, the scent of ashes and iron, yellow eyes that express nothing and yet see entirely too much.  

He opens his eyes and the cup has not passed from him. He continues.

“This year, in which I have been so fortunate as to see few of my scientists or guards retire, I have made a most difficult decision: I will not be adding to their ranks members from the graduating class.”

The people do not yet respond, believe, understand.

“I will not steal from you, Radiant Garden, that which I do not need. Instead, I will gift this, the best and brightest our kingdom has to offer back to you. 

“They will find employment in your medical centers and mercantiles, they will join the People’s Guard, and I know they will thrive.”

The cries of outrage begin in the back. Fists thrust into the air. Yelps. A wail. Sobs. From the first row, his finest prospects, he sees stone faces, hears the yawning silence of betrayal.     
  
“Some of you will have concerns,” Ansem concludes as if no one has reacted at all. “The Captain will be here to address them presently. Thank you.”

He steps off the podium. 

*     *

The cold grew more piercing with the dying light of day, and the men walked on either side of Calliope, all of their shoulders brushing, as they climbed out of the valley cradling the chapel. 

Lea and Isa were unusually quiet, reflecting on the small and wise woman between them and how much she had witnessed this afternoon.

Lea knew Isa’s trust in her was absolute, wished that were enough to make him forget the way she looked down her nose at him without even really trying. _ She doesn’t think I’m good enough for him. A product of good breeding, no doubt.  _ A force he knew she at least tried to suppress. That  _ should be enough.  _

They had stopped for Isa to fish his boot out of the muck, when a vindictive wind swept across their necks. Lea could hear the chatter of his companions’ teeth and felt the tiny  _ Fira _ charm Rena had tossed him one afternoon burning in his breast pocket, sending heat coursing through his bloodstream.

Most of it had dissolved in his battle that afternoon, though Lea had later blamed the scorch marks on the heartless. 

“I saw what you can do,” Calliope said finally, turning to Lea, though Isa was the one who visibly stiffened. “You may as well do it.”

Lea exhaled and his breath fogged, visibly more thickly than theirs did. 

“I won’t tell anyone,” she continued, almost wistful, catching his eyes, “I think magic is beautiful, a gift, Lea. It’s meant to be used. It saddens me that we restrict it like an animal in a cage.” 

Lea’s brows drew together, and Isa said what was on Lea’s mind. “Beautiful or not, it is forbidden.”

Nevertheless, Lea stepped between the two, and held out his hands in their ripped gloves for theirs. Lea could not feel the heat leave his body but saw the tension lift from their tight shoulders and watched smiles lighten the weight of their gazes.     

Calliope chuckled. “I’m betting if Lea didn’t make the Guard, he wouldn’t be so keen on the code.”

He squeezed her palm, grateful for the small ounce of acceptance, more than he got from Isa most of the time, though he knew his friend was only trying to protect him. “You got me there.” 

“That’s my prediction,” she continued, cheerily, “Lea would go on a code breaking spree.”

Lea gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Are we talking get a facial tattoo and drink too much tequila break the code or commit murder and grand treason break the code?”

“Oh all of that, definitely,” Isa assured, in that regal, mocking tone of his. 

Lea noted Isa had twined all of his arm around Lea’s.  _ The heat slut.  _

“Alright, wise guy,” Lea peered slightly upward into sharp blue, and felt his tongue flick too hard against the edge of his teeth, “so assuming the Guard is out, what’s a man to do?”

Isa’s shoulder shrugged beneath Lea’s. “A body guard? Perhaps a chef. All else fails, you can be somebody’s trophy husband.”

Calliope had to stop beneath the road sign marking the way back to town to cackle, kicking up a pebble or two with her toe. 

Isa peered at her with narrowed eyes and swept a hand toward Lea as if he were a merchant demonstrating a potion. “He cleans, he cooks, he primps, he flirts, his brunch and cocktail parties would be  _ divine _ …” 

Lea turned, his lips a little too near Isa’s neck as he mumbled, “So that’s what you saw in me.” 

“Obviously.” 

“Hm,” Lea straightened, winking at Calliope, “and what are you eating now, Isa?” 

“Ugh,” Isa’s hand rose unconsciously to his presently hollow stomach, nose wrinkling,  “you would not be impressed…” 

They resumed their steady clip toward town, aching calves grateful that the path was levelling out. Lea nodded to the street lamps along the way and they winked merrily back. 

*     *

The Dean of Radiant Academy had been a former royal guard and a member of one of the most prosperous noble families in the kingdom, as is evident in the certainty with which he surges forward from his position on the back of the platform at the top of the stairway to the castle, and the severity with which he addresses his King. 

“Your highness, if we might entreat you to hear what some of our students have to say on this matter.” 

King Ansem steps away from the dean and the dean seizes his arm. 

“I think that they may open your eyes to their great need and desire to serve you.” The words provide due reverence, but their tone is fierce and forceful. 

Ansem’s head and heart already ache. He adopts a kinder tone, “I am afraid my decision is final, Dean Petrichor. As I have said, the Captain will be happy to address your concerns. I myself have urgent matters to attend to.” He turns his attention back to the enraptured crowd. “Good day, Radiant Garden. May your hearts be your guiding key.”

*      *                


The trio stood outside the grand, white gate of curling iron and climbing lilac flowers before Calliope’s family’s manor. The young men had gone incredibly out of their way to escort her, but with the bite in the air and the looming threat of heartless, they had insisted, the promise of a long walk home alone together a warm consolation to their leaden limbs and growling stomachs.  

They had continued to pass their time discussing alternatives to royal employment, though Lea had long since assured them he would speak with Aeleus regardless of the outcome of their game. 

“With all your grace and poise, you decide to give up fighting and become a dancer.” Lea struck the elegant, fluttering poses of a soundless ballet, green eyes locking on Calliope’s in the glow of the electric lights strung along the gate, and she giggled, at ease now, worn from the cleaning, emotional conversations, and, of course, the long walk.

Isa spared this interaction a smile of his own before his interest was diverted to the swish of Lea’s hips. 

“Your fame will spread like wildfire and you’ll perform throughout the kingdom for the richest of rich and the poorest of poor to the hail of wild applause!”

“It’s a shame I hate music,” she admitted, grin apologetic. Her mother hired musicians to play at every major banquet, and there were days where she thought that if she had to hear another string quartet, she would die. 

Lea dismissed this with a wave and took her hand. “No music then.” He twirled her, her coat billowing out and her laughter airy. She caught Isa’s hand next, and he bowed and twirled her himself.  

“Sounds like the start of a circus,” Isa mused, “I’ll juggle swords and Lea can be a clown.” His hands squeezed Calliope’s as their feet went still, and he shifted his gaze back to the magnetic green one of the man leaning up against Calliope’s gate like he owned the place, fiddling with a tear in his glove. “He’s been training his entire life.”

Amused and content, Lea’s gaze did not waver as he stretched the material at his palm, wondering if there was enough fabric to patch over.  _ No good.  _ At least his skin was flame-resistant. New leather gloves weren’t exactly in the budget, let alone fireproof ones. And he wasn’t about to pay  _ Rena  _ another visit. 

They continued to watch him in the glimmer of the fairy lights, so still, so calm. 

“I don’t know, Isa,” Calliope mused in a whisper out the side of her mouth, “you can be awfully stern. Perhaps you ought to be our lion tamer.” 

“I do have a certain skill at that,” he whispered back, cheek dimpling, an eyebrow cocked.  

Dropping his gloves in defeat and noticing his friends had lapsed into silence, Lea took it upon himself to pry open the entryway and sweep his arm forward gallantly to usher in the woman that could probably kick his ass.    
  
“Good night, Calliope,” the young men bid her in near unison. 

“Good night, lion tamer.” She waved and continued forward, swords swinging at her sides. “Good night, lion.”  

Ascending her porch steps, she wonders if, walking together, unseen in the darkness, they will huddle together or drift further apart. 

In the distance, she can just make out the sound of a faint but heartfelt roar.


	10. Interlude: Gemini

_Your parents are dead._

Ienzo never dwelled on it. He suffered no lack of love or attention, no void in his soul. If anything he had too _many_ parents for an orphan.

_Ansem and his apprentices found you. They decided to take you in._

Ienzo had been bundled in a basket and abandoned on the seat of the throne of the King of Radiant Garden. His hair had been a strange shade of gray-blue and his eyes impossibly large and somber. He hadn’t laughed or cried, not until Ansem held him. Ienzo managed a smile for his king, his papa. Ansem, the bachelor monarch, had fallen in love.

There was an orphanage in town with a 95% adoption rate, but no one considered taking him there.

_They raised you like a prince. You had everything that you ever wanted: tutors, books, toys, servants at your beck and call. Parents to read to you and play with you and ruffle your hair._

_They taught you science, history, art, diplomacy, mathematics, strategy, magic._

No. They had raised him like a princess in a tower.

He could not leave.

He studied. And if he finished his studies they were reviewed and corrected. If he finished his studies he could help out in the lab or shadow one of his fathers.

_They made you intelligent._

They had made him helpless.

Three of his fathers were warriors, but he wasn’t permitted to hold a weapon.

_No need. They were always there for you._

He had been alone.

There were other children in the castle, but there might as well not have been. Even would not permit him to play with a child that was not pre-approved, stuffy, of noble birth, and completely disinterested in anything a bookish orphan boy had to say. He was forbidden from talking about his magic or anything going on in the lab—anything interesting, in essence.

Aeleus would not permit him to stray from his side on guard duty, to wander into the town square to play kickball with the riff raff in the street. Braig had said he could, but warned that the other kids might not be overly friendly to a spoiled brat, might rough him up, even, which had done more to deter Ienzo than anything else.

_They sent you to the academy. You could have made friends there. You did. You must have._

When he attended the academy, Ienzo could not let his professors see him slacking off or speaking with anyone below his fictitious pedigree. They would report to Even or Ansem and his fathers would threaten to pull him out of school.

In the rare moments when he could speak with them, he hadn’t the faintest idea _what_ to say. And, he had been advanced two years beyond his age, so they had no interest in hearing him say it. His classmates likely thought him shy and dull.

Unfortunately, _they_ were the only people he found interesting. The scholarship riff raff—their cheeks hollow and pant cuffs flecked with dirt, their limbs skinny and fingers callused, but their eyes filled with fire.

They fascinated and captivated him, though he would never admit it, certainly not to them. The guttersnipes. The people his father, Even, called ‘trash’, his dad, Aeleus, ‘bad influences’, his uncle Dilan, ‘rough’, his papa, Ansem, ‘charity cases’.  

So Ienzo stalked them with his eyes, playing in the streets, smoking in the back hallways.

_Your parents were trying to keep you safe._

His parents were trying to guard him like they guarded the castle and the secrets broiling underneath it.

_You were happy._

Of course he was.

_You love them anyway._

Of course he does.

Most of them.

*      *

Braig was the only one of the tight knit group of Ansem’s apprentices that adopted Ienzo that he never called any variation of the word father.

Braig haunts him still.

The memories appear in the strangest everyday minutia.

A spill, the snap of a belt, an unexpected hand on his shoulder, and Ienzo would hear the low growl that emitted from Braig’s throat when he made a mistake in his charge.

_If it were up to me I’d cuff your ears, I’d blacken your eye, I’d spank your ass. Those pansies are too soft on you._

_You ever leave this castle, reality’s going to be a bitch._

_You fuck with me, I’ll fuck with you._

_Hey, gorgeous._

 

Buttons.

When Ienzo had begun to perfect the illusion of an alternate human form, he used it to sneak around the castle and the kingdom at will for experimental research and, if he was being honest with himself (and he never was) for fun.

He called himself Acacia.

Acacia was precisely Ienzo’s height and weight but bore golden brown curls, a tan complexion, and a square jaw. Common enough to blend in, pretty enough to get away with something, he appeared four or five years Ienzo’s senior. Acacia would have got on well with Ienzo’s classmates Lea and Isa—a young, scrappy, well-muscled gent in a nondescript serving uniform not quite his size, prone to wandering, mischief, and avoiding his superiors.

Ienzo’s outings as Acacia were usually successful, enjoyable, even, but every now and then, they were not.

When Ienzo was thirteen and Acacia seventeen, Aeleus caught Ienzo by the back of the collar on his way back from an excursion into the servant’s quarters. Ienzo had been lurking a bit too close to their lab, picking his way toward his room to shift back to himself.

He could not reveal his identity to Aeleus without risking an end to his adventures and personal research, and in any case he didn’t have the chance.

“You!” a stern, familiar voice froze Ienzo in place. _Dad._ “You shouldn’t be down here.”

“I—” The shock of his father’s ferocity set his voice into more of a stammer than Acacia usually supplied. The two made eye contact, Ienzo working his jaw, Aeleus softening when he took in how young the servant was with a sigh.

“Well, never mind it now. You’ll have to do. Come. Make yourself useful.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” Ienzo had generally avoided his fathers in his disguise, certain they would see through him, that he would slip up, speak with over familiarity. At that moment, with solemn intensity replacing Aeleus’ typical indulgent smile, pretending had never come easier.

“Here, child.” Aeleus dragged his son toward the stairway. He handed him an envelope and a potion bottle with strict instructions to deliver them to the guard in 202. “Do as he says, make haste, and I will rethink telling your superior about your excessive curiosity.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir. I—"

Aeleus halted his groveling with a raised hand and a stone face. “I really don’t care. Get going. He doesn’t like to wait.”

Ienzo spent much of his trek to the guard’s quarters thinking about his father and how differently he had spoken to him. Not that Ienzo had never seen it, but to be on the receiving end had not left a pleasant taste in his mouth. He could only hope the guard receiving the note Aeleus entrusted him with was in a better mood.


	11. Interlude: Janus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: This chapter focuses on an adult making advances on a minor. 
> 
> If you find you would like to skip it, the events are summarized within the following chapter, and the whole interlude is more background information than of absolute necessity to the plot.

“About fucking time.”

Door 202 was hauled open and out of Ienzo’s palms with a strength befitting the ridiculous muscles of the guard on the other side. Ienzo found himself face to face with a shirtless man in half zipped pants above black briefs and it was all Ienzo could do not to hiss out the guard’s name and scramble away. At Ienzo’s eye level, tendrils of dark, damp hair dripped down the bare planes of a well-toned chest.

Braig whipped a damp towel from around his neck and cracked it in the air before tossing it over Ienzo’s shoulder.

Ienzo stood clutching the parcel with white knuckles and willing the illusion enveloping his body to stay in place. The damp towel seeped into his uniform, and he firmly shut his swinging jaw, combating the sick feeling in his chest.

Braig strode back into the tidy room like he hadn’t just answered his door three quarters naked, and sat on the side of his bed. He drew up his zipper and motioned for Ienzo again before digging through a pile of clothing. “Well? Get your ass in here,” he commanded without looking up.

Ienzo’s feet swiftly obeyed while his brain spouted its objections. “Apologies,” he muttered, halting in the center of the room, arms crossing, gaze shifting around the space.

The walls were unadorned and bright white, everything military in its tidiness except a pile of gear dumped hastily beside the door, reeking of sweat, and a red scarf strewn across the top of the bureau like spilt blood.   

Braig tilted his head slightly and the door across the room smacked shut behind Ienzo.  

Ienzo had seen enough magic to keep his footing, but he tried to look surprised, and it _was_ surprising for Braig to show off his magic so freely when he wasn’t licensed to perform it in the first place. Not that a random servant would know that.

 _Servant,_ Ienzo scolded himself, the weight on his shoulder a reminder of his position—a reminder that to Braig he probably wasn’t worth the discretion of, say, fully done up pants.

“I—What would you like me to do with your...towel?”

Braig plucked a white button down from the laundry pile and rose to shift the rest into the drawer of his bureau.

“A strip tease.”

Ienzo felt his throat constricting and fumbled a step back. He knew, _everyone_ knew, Braig was a bit of a slut when it came to maids and young female guards, but there were _other_ whispers.

Braig rolled his eyes when the drawer wouldn’t open with his single free hand, and with a sharp gesture the handles glowed purple and the drawer flew forward. He set the stack away, and paused, sparing the stunned Ienzo a glance over his shoulder.

With a bark of laughter, Braig motioned to a wicker basket near a sturdy oak desk. “Just toss it in the laundry bin, dumbass.”

Ienzo would have held in the embarrassed “Oh” but as Acacia it slipped out.

“Well, what did I expect?” Braig mused to himself. “You’re what, nineteen?”

“Something like that.”

“Younger? Shit.” Braig chuckled as he returned to sitting on the side of the bed, bare toes curling in the carpet, right arm hanging loosely across his chest, left fumbling with the button of his trousers. He gave Ienzo a slow once over as he eased the button into place. “I’m Braig.” The guard leaned forward and offered a teasing two fingered salute.

“Acacia.” Ienzo returned the gesture hesitantly, skin prickling, though the air was humid.

“You’re not one of my usual maids.”

_Gods. He knows. He suspects something is off. He..._

_No. Impossible._

“Uh, no.” Ienzo nodded curtly, reassuring himself that he had made Acacia appear older than him, that Braig had a backward sense of humor in the first place, that this job was meant to be in and out, and he was halfway there. He held out the parcel in his arms. “Captain Aeleus requested these be delivered to you posthaste.”

“Posthaste.” Braig grinned conspiratorially. “The bastard.”

Ienzo felt his teeth set on edge at the insult to his dad, but Braig took no notice, merely nodded and motioned him further forward. “Went out for a bit of training this morning, hungover, mind you, and got my ass handed to me by the old rock titan. Took a bit of a spill and sprained my wrist,” he gingerly raised his right hand, wrapped in tape and attempted a half rotation which ended in a slight wince. “Damn thing’s put me out of commission for the day.”

Ienzo nodded again, trying not to think of how Braig planned to fill the free time, if he’d journey down to the labs later, and opting to hand him the potion first.

Braig examined its bubbling green contents, humming, “You are a dumbass” almost fondly. He raised the glass in his good hand to tug the stopper out with his teeth.

Ienzo stood with fingers outstretched. Braig’s wrist was sprained, and Ienzo had just made him uncork a bottle one-handed. Braig had moved too quickly for him to correct his mistake.  

“My apologies,” muttered Ienzo again, unused to making stupid mistakes of any kind.  

“Cheers, mate.” Braig waved him off with a reassuring grin and downed the potion like a shot.

Ienzo’s eyes widened. That kind of thing should have made Braig’s vision blur and head go fuzzy, but he stayed upright, brown eyes sharp as flint. He made a tiny, satisfactory sigh and handed the empty bottle off to Ienzo, who moved to set it on the desk. Ienzo couldn’t help but think Even would be interested in studying Braig’s level of tolerance. He was fond of pushing people to their limits.

Rumor had it, so was Braig.

“What’s the note say?” Braig inquired, slipping into the near transparent white shirt and running a hand through his damp locks.

Ienzo would not make the same mistake twice. “Shall I open it for you?”

Another teasing chuckle. “If you haven’t already.”

Ienzo’s hand flew to cover his heart. That accusation could get a servant fired, and since his position had been falsified, investigation would not end well. “I would never.”

“Yeah,” another eye roll from the thirty-year-old guard, “oh fucking kay, angel face, just get on with it.”

 _Angel face._ Ienzo was grateful his back was turned. Braig hadn’t seen him cringe.

“ _My dearest Braig,_ ” Ienzo reads, “ _Your superior officers have become aware that the mutually enthusiastic attentions between yourselves and the female serving staff challenge your solemn and steadfast resolve to your Guard’s vow of chastity._ ”

Braig full out snorted, and if Ienzo had been less uncomfortable he might have joined him.

“ _Your superior officers continue to have faith that you have not broken this most precious bond to your duty and your king._ ”  
  
Braig shook his head in silent laughter, and Ienzo attempted to keep his tone even. He could hear Aeleus’ wry sarcasm inked in every syllable.  

“ _In order to aid you in your valiant resistance of further temptation, you will be placed on patrol duty with male guards. In addition, we ask that you allow the male-serving staff, such as the young gentleman I have tasked with this delivery, to attend to your needs for the time being. Signed, Captain Aeleus, First Division._ ”     

Braig stretched out his good hand for the note, and Ienzo quickly passed it over, lest Braig doubt its authenticity and accuse him of impertinence.

“What a bunch of fucking idiots,” he muttered, scanning down the lines and tossing the paper off to his side where it fluttered to the floor. His sneer broadened, falling on the illusion of Acacia again, “Might as well send me a note demanding I go on a diet attached to a chocolate fucking eclair, eh, kid?”

Ienzo’s brows rose but he kept his mouth shut, concentrating on maintaining his disguise through his rapidly shifting emotions. _His dad_ had written this note? Had ignored the rules of the Guard to defend Braig? Had sent some unawares kid in case Braig decided to shoot the messenger in a less than metaphorical sense?

_Why?_

He realized from the intense look Braig was giving him that the man had said something important to him, and Ienzo had missed it. Ienzo shook his head.  “I don’t understand.”

“No, sweetie,” the mocking smile returned, slow, and his arms spread as if he were inviting his young guest into an embrace, “of course you fucking don’t.” He read Ienzo’s tense expression and fluttered a hand gently, “Relax. C’mere.”

If anything, the softness terrified Ienzo more than the harsh barks and teasing. It was new, false, unwelcome. “Actually, I ought to be going back.”

This took Braig a long moment to process. “Actually,” Braig’s arms dropped, no longer amused, “You ought to be doing what I fucking tell you to do.”

_Most of my fathers would cut his tongue out if they heard him speak that way to me._

_But I’m_ not _me. I’m a servant._

_A servant captive in a room with one of the palace’s most menacing and ruthless guards._

_And I’ve made myself inconsequential. I’ve made myself a nobody._

Ienzo felt his heart accelerating. He inhaled sharply in attempt to allay the rapid rhythm.

Again, Ienzo’s legs carried him stiffly forward. “Of course, sir.”

“Hey.” Braig sighed, eyes shutting, and Ienzo recalled that his activities that morning had likely exhausted him, his endorphin buzz slowing into weariness and pangs of pain. “Look it, I’m just in a bit of a bind. I can’t even fucking,” he tugged at one lapel of his shirt, a small furrow creasing his brow, as he attempted to align it with the other side without much success. “Buttons,” he emphasized in a growl before Ienzo could do much more than stare at his bare chest.

Ienzo felt the briefest twinge of sympathy, as if a single nerve had been numbed of pain while the rest roared on.

“I’m from the kitchens. I’m not really trained to assist with…”

Braig stared at him in outright disbelief, returning a compact to his sprained wrist with a grimace. The ice water began to drip down his abdomen.

“Buttons?” Braig concluded.

This time the “dumbass” was implied.

 

Up close, Ienzo could smell Braig’s peppermint soap and the faint cling of sweat. His stomach turned with each accidental brush of skin on damp skin as the buttons rolled under his thumb and flipped into place.

“So, tell me about yourself,” Braig murmured, and Ienzo flinched at the vibration below his hand, pausing to see if Braig would turn this into a joke—almost wishing he would. “New kitchen boy.”

A taste like vomit clawed its way up his esophagus, and he swallowed it down. “There’s not much to tell.”

“Always somethin’.” Braig rolled his neck. “Where ya from?”

Ienzo named the most populous part of the city, a borough furthest from where he figured Braig grew up. He added a few other details: nothing north of a primary education, his job in the kitchen, an imaginary cousin who put him there.

“You weren’t kidding,” Braig observed, after Ienzo described a mundane assignment baking bread he had actually accidentally been roped into one afternoon, “not much to it.”

“Oh excellent,” Ienzo sputtered, holding the last button between his thumb and forefinger, a courteous distance from Braig’s chest, and realizing with dismay that it did not align with the final buttonhole on the other side of the shirt.

“Just now noticing that, are we?” Braig sneered, laughter low, chucking Ienzo beneath the chin with his knuckles. “Guess you better do ‘em all again.”

Ienzo’s cheeks burnt red, even with Acacia’s tanned complexion, but he began to flick open the buttons he’d just done, each snicker vibrating Braig’s chest crawling up Ienzo’s spine, chilling as the ice water that flicked at him each time Braig forgot he couldn’t gesture with a compress to his wrist.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ienzo knew the bitterness in his voice was a risk, but at thirteen, he couldn’t restrain it.  
  
“Dunno.” Braig smirked. “Here, I won’t bite.” Braig’s working hand slid down Ienzo’s side, skinnier than he looked, but Braig didn’t seem to notice, distracted by the rigid tension in his abdomen as he settled Ienzo between his knees, and drew his hand up Ienzo’s bicep. “I suppose a massage would be a bit above your level of expertise, eh?”

Heat lit Ienzo’s neck and fingertips and he took a sharp inhale, more peppermint, as Braig laughed. “Yeah, I thought so.”

“So, you like cooking?” Braig tried again.

“Hm?” Ienzo knew from experience that the best way to get rid of someone was pointed silence, but Braig was clearly growing bored and was not to be trifled with.

“Your job. You like your job?”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re wearing it, y’know—on your face.”

Ienzo hadn’t been to the kitchen all day, had triple-checked his appearance before knocking at Braig’s door. There was nothing on his face.

Braig licked his knuckle and reached out to smudge at an invisible stain on Ienzo’s cheek.

The rough dampness he left behind felt like a kiss, and Ienzo’s muscles all tensed. He could feel the damp mark spreading across his face like a hot bruise.

Ienzo thought he felt the illusion slip out of his grasp, was half convinced his hair had flashed a steely color or his eyes had shifted to an ocean blue. But if it did, Braig never reacted.

“Didn’t quite get it,” Braig smirked, leaning in, lips slightly parted. “Mind if I…?”

“Please,” Ienzo yanked back, dropping the fabric. “Braig, don’t.”

“Don’t make you presentable for your senior officer?” Braig leaned back, arms crossing, brows rising, expression somehow professionally detached. “You wanna run that by me again, runt?”

The shift in attitude was overwhelming.

Perhaps he had let rumors and his imagination get the better of him. Perhaps Braig was just babying this servant like his adopted fathers babied Ienzo.

Ienzo dropped the hands he had raised in objection and cautiously returned to working at Braig’s shirt instead.

 _Damn Acacia. Damn this whole idea._ Damn.

Braig pressed his hand to Ienzo’s side, repositioning him to better get at the buttons just below Braig’s throat, and then forgot to remove it.

_Perhaps not._

Ienzo tried not to react.

Let Braig think him stupid and oblivious. _There are worse things._ The massage of Braig’s thumb was proof of that. 

“Bet the pay is shit,” Braig continued as if there’d been no interruption.

“I manage.”

“He _manages_. As if.” Braig’s eyes narrowed, lips quirking, examining Acacia. “Y’know, pretty face like yours, you could do a lot better than that.”

Ienzo slid the last button closed and pulled back, halted by Braig’s hands at his waist. “...Pretty?” he sputtered.

“Gorgeous.” Braig’s eyes pinned his, painfully calm and steady, “You almost remind me of…” He shook his head. “Well, never mind. Point is: You could do better, and I am, apparently, hiring. What do say you and me go grab some drinks and discuss your prospects?”

It took all of Ienzo’s willpower not to yank out of the over-friendly grasp. In and out. He just had to get in and out. “Prospects?”

Braig’s good hand lowered to cup Ienzo’s ass. “ _Prospects_ , dumbass.”

Ienzo yelped, leaping backward out of his grip, twisting at Braig’s injured hand as it snatched at his uniform shirt.

Braig hissed at the sudden pain, a scowl darkening his features as he rose to his feet. “A ‘no’ would have been just fine,” he called after Ienzo, and made no move to follow him as he darted toward the shut door.

Braig appeared in front of him before he got there, stepping from a portal black as the night sky and frowning again at Ienzo’s lack of reaction.

He leaned an elbow against the doorframe and studied Ienzo’s face. “What’s the issue, sweetheart? I won’t get you fired. I know how to be discreet.” He chuckled, purred, “I did get you delivered to my door, after all.”

Ienzo shut his eyes, wracking his brain for a logical escape that didn’t involve an illusion that would immediately give him away.

Braig rose an eyebrow. “Not gay? Because I can turn off the lights.”

Ienzo scoffed. “I am not… I cannot…” His heart pulsed quadruple its typical rate. _Thirteen. What are you doing, I’m..._

“Not single? Not interested?” Braig ticked these off on his fingertips like he’d done so before.

“Yes! Yes. Correct. All of those things.”

“Well, fuck, kid.” Braig watched Ienzo’s relief with a deepening frown, rapping his knuckles against the doorframe. “You know how to let a guy down easy.”

 “Sor—” Ienzo choked on the half-formed word, furious with himself for almost using it.  
  
Braig shrugged, gesturing toward the town beyond his window. “Just drinks then?”

“I have to go. Please let me go.”

“Sure, eclair.” A glimmer of amusement crossed Braig’s eyes. He flicked his wrist and the door unbolted and sprang open. “You ever want to ditch the white coat and get your hands dirty, you know where to find me.” Braig winked, stepping out of his way. “You don’t have to be alone.”

In his head, Ienzo knew he was wearing a pristine white baker’s uniform, but, in his chest, he couldn’t help but imagine that Braig was looking at him and seeing Ienzo in an oversized white lab coat.

He made it out into the hallway only to have fingers wrap his shoulders from behind. Tears stung his eyes.

“Here.” Braig deposited a small sum of munny into the breast pocket of Ienzo’s uniform. It was customary to tip servants running errands outside of their designated roles, but nothing had been further from Ienzo’s mind. “For all your trouble.”

“Don’t _touch_ me.” A shiver wracked his slender frame and he let the illusion fall away in its entirety.

“Well, shit.” Braig blinked as Ienzo whirled on him, schooling his expression into neutrality before Ienzo could determine whether Braig had known all along or not.

“Couldn’t make it five more minutes, huh?” Braig rustled the dark, silvery blue bangs shading one of Ienzo’s eyes, before Ienzo could smack his hand back. “Always nice seeing ya, kiddo.”

“Fuck off.” Ienzo might have been a kid, but he had been raised by castle guards, not monks.

Lips curling, Braig gave Ienzo’s shoulder a defiant squeeze. “Ciao, gorgeous.” A slight push propelled him down the hallway. “Take care of yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to zackstrife for helping me out with this chapter! This was a tough one to write.


	12. Interlude: Conjecture

Ansem had a team of legal advisors who gave counsel to the citizens of Radiant Garden upon whether or not it would be worthwhile to air their grievances to the King and his court.

Ienzo considered telling his fathers first, but the words constricted in his throat each time he tried. And what was the point, if nothing could be legally done? Dilan and Aeleus would tear Braig limb from limb regardless, and then both of _them_ would be behind bars. A tight knit family of apprentices destroyed overnight because Ienzo had gone where he had no business going. And then, so had Braig.

“I will summarize the statements you have made, and you will confirm their accuracy in terms of this situation. For the sake of legality and the privacy of all parties involved, we will continue under the assumption that everything that we speak of is entirely hypothetical. Do you agree to these terms, Ienzo the Illusionist, Son of Seven?”

“Yes.”  

“Disguised as a seventeen-year-old male servant, you delivered a package to Lieutenant Braig at the order of another royal guard to remain unnamed.”

“Correct.”

“You did not explicitly identify yourself to either.”

“Correct. However, I felt that—”

“If you please, we will table further discussion until I conclude.” 

“...Of course.”

“The lieutenant then proceeded to ask you to perform a variety of menial tasks. These tasks were well within the boundaries of those expected of any squire or household servant, such as helping him to drink a potion and button his shirt. He went so far as to explain that he would perform the tasks himself, were he not injured.”  
  
“Well, yes. But then—”

“He would not allow you to shirk these basic duties when you expressed a disinclination to perform them, as is in his right to do, as a high-ranking royal officer.”

“I suppose...were I who I said. It was just the way that he...”

“We do not imprison people for poor bedside manner.”

“Of course, sir.” _Although perhaps you should._

“As you helped him with these tasks, he kindly took interest in and made inquiries into your personal life.”

“I would not call it _kind._ ”

“He then most generously offered you a position as his personal assistant.”

“I did not get the impression that he meant that in any traditional sense of the words.”

“That is, however, precisely what he said.”

“...Yes.”

“And, had he intended to make a less wholesome proposition, it was, to his knowledge, to an individual that, while significantly younger, was within consenting age.”

“Yes, though I do not know that he had not determined who I was at that point.”

“That is conjecture.”

“What?”

“He did not, at that point, name you or markedly change his behavior?”

“I... no.”  

“So, then, we must act under the assumption that he was unawares.”

“Oh...we _must_ , must we?”  

“Startled, you appeared to lose your balance, and Braig reached out to catch you.”

“No. _No._ I never lost my balance, and he intentionally groped my posterior. He was trying, trying to—”

“That is not what Braig would say, were I to interview him.”

“Well, of bloody course not!” 

“Presuming his intentions were impure, you abandoned your task, lashed out at an _injured_ man, and fled.”

“ _Correct._ ”

“He followed only in order to tip you, though you had not performed the extent of your duties.”

“He was _gloating._ ”

“Further conjecture.”

“I cannot believe you are saying these things to me right now.”

“Sit down. You need to hear them. Unnerved by his reappearance, you then revealed yourself to him and he immediately allowed you to leave without further obstruction and, what’s more, did not demean you by reciting the incident to any of your guardians. Have I recited the events with accuracy as they unfolded?”

“You have recited the same events colored in an entirely different hue than when I painted them for you.”

“As would Lieutenant Braig. You must understand, without evidence or witness, it would be your word versus his, and you are but a child. You are just as likely, if not more so, to be punished by your fathers for your impersonations, as Braig is to face repercussions for his purported, _minor_ ministrations—repercussions which this particular man has avoided, time and again, slippery as an oiled snake.”

“I begin to understand your point, but surely, surely, I must be able to do _something._ ”

“Learn from it. Take further care in the future. Protect others from a similar fate. Be grateful that you walk away with your freedom intact and not a scratch on your person.”

“Not all scratches are on the outside. I trust this will continue to stay between the two of us.”

“That is the nature of my profession. It will be as if we never spoke of it, if that is what you wish.”

“Yes. Yes, I thought you might say that. Good day.”

“Good day, Ienzo.”      

 


	13. Interlude: Ingrate

The memories take Ienzo by the throat. Still his disguise stays set and his feet move.

Braig walks by his side, through castle halls the man has not traversed in a decade. Ienzo has no set destination in mind, no intention of taking the man to Ansem as he’s promised. He need only walk until they come across a castle guard.

In Ienzo’s memories, months pass in seconds before a morning claws its way to the surface.

*          *

 _It’s utterly ridiculous, all of it. Exorbitant and frivolous and ungracious._ The round table of the king’s small, private dining room had been set in rich, creamy white silk tablecloths, napkins the color of a midday sky, lavender place settings, and serving dishes piled high with every breakfast food known to man. The crisp burn of bacon mingled with the over sweet pull of syrup, as the hiss of the candles being lit interrupted the gurgle of drinks pouring.

Ienzo didn’t bother to seat himself. No sooner had one father pulled him into a tight embrace than another appeared and he was passed off, spinning between them with an enormous grin across his face. His heart felt full as the men took their places around the veritable breakfast feast. Braig arrived unapologetically late, forgoing a hug to occupy the empty chair, which Ienzo figured was the greatest kindness the man could manage that day.

With everyone assembled around the table, Ansem stood and tapped his knife to his glass to draw the eyes and ears of the chattering guards and scientists. The king set a hand, more rings than fingers, onto his son’s shoulder.

Outside the rays of dawn had scarcely met the sky, everything a deep indigo and scattered, blinding white stars. The first crow’s calls of the day breached the silence before Ansem spoke.

It was the same toast every year. Ienzo: our pride and joy, our prodigy: brilliant, kind, a gifted magician and scholar. Our son in every way that matters. We love you. May you grow ever wiser, ever stronger. May your heart be your guiding key. Happy Adoption Day, my child.  Happy Birthday, Ienzo. 

The breakfast was remarkable in its casualness: warm, cozy, unassuming. Despite the power wielded by those assembled, the conversation held no weight or import, each merely grateful for their unity, as they found themselves unable to frequently convene in their full number. Ienzo spoke to each of his guardians between bites of French toast, and they doted on him in their own ways, as they no doubt would the entire day, as they had done for fourteen years.

When everyone had more or less finished, Ansem presented Ienzo with a silk wrapped lexicon in an ancient leathery binding of graying black. Silver rune inscriptions had been embossed in its cover like a brand. It took Ienzo a long moment to breathe again, mind already brimming with possibilities.

Even gifted Ienzo with a new stark white lab coat, as he did each year, this one accompanied with a lavender cravat, a symbolic reassurance that he would one day become the youngest Scientist on Ansem’s team in its lengthy history. Ienzo felt like he had carbon bubbling in his chest and acid lit beneath his nose. His tear ducts threatened to overflow and he quickly swiped a hand across his eyes. “Thank you all for your presence and your gifts. Today and every day of my life. I am truly blessed to be among you…”

Aeleus cheered, Even beamed, and Ansem clapped him across the back.

“That’s our little pansy,” Braig answered fondly, fist thumping the table, and Dilan’s low chuckle charitably joined Braig’s.

Ienzo met his eyes without meaning to and just as quickly tore them away and stood abruptly. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid I’ll be late to Academy if I tarry any longer.”

“Ah,” Ansem glanced to the window, where the rising pink of the sun glistened on the dewy tree tops like sugar crystals, “of course. We all ought to be on our way.”

Braig rose as well, and Ienzo stumbled over his chair backing up.

“I’ll escort you.”

Ienzo choked, feeling the weight of his guardians’ gazes resting solidly atop his shoulders. “Nonsense, you have your own duties to attend to.”

Braig shoved off the notion with flip of his wrist. “I’m patrolling from the gardens to the clocktower. It’s on the way.”

“I…” Ienzo sternly reminded himself Braig hadn’t done anything much aside from leer at him in months. Not that he had ever given him the opportunity to get out more than a handful of words on the rare occasions they happened across each other. But had he really intended anything, it would have happened by now.  

“I insist.”

“Very well, but we must depart at once.”

 Braig smiled, wider than necessary, and nodded, bidding his fellow apprentices and Ansem adieu and following the young teen out into the hall. Well wishes filled the air behind him, but Ienzo did not hear them. 

 

Ienzo found himself wishing he hadn’t brought his blazer and school bag with him to breakfast. If he had had to head to his room to retrieve them, he may have been able to give Braig the slip, but he was already running late as it was...

 Oblivious to the young man’s inner turmoil, Braig was humming tunelessly and fishing around in his jacket pocket for what Ienzo assumed was a pack of cigarettes.

Instead Braig produced a parcel, wrapped in thick maroon fabric tied off in a knot.

“Here,” Braig grunted, and carefully passed it off to Ienzo, as they walked side by side.

Startled, Ienzo accepted the thing, flipping the heavy object in his hands. He attempted to hand the gift back off, but Braig ignored him.

A gift from Braig in and of itself was not unexpected. He had, in previous years, given the boy unique and surprisingly thoughtful gifts, when he cared to remember. But given their current estrangement after the incident with Acacia, it hardly seemed appropriate.

“I don’t want anything from _you_ ,” Ienzo hissed, surveying the corridor to ensure they were alone.

“This isn’t _about_ me, sweetheart,” Braig growled back and then sighed, voice losing some of its aggression, “Just open it.”

Dark curiosity piqued in spite of himself, Ienzo made to tug at the inside edges of the knot, sighing to himself.  

Braig glanced around the empty, lamp-lit corridor and held a door open for Ienzo to pass through.

“Good gods.” Ienzo nearly dropped the thing when he processed what it was, a mild gasp escaping his mouth as he used the cloth to turn and examine a finely polished dagger. Carefully rewrapping the blade, Ienzo examined its hilt, gold or bronze and tastefully inset with bright jewels.  

Ienzo’s eyes darted between the blade and the guard. “You are as well aware as anyone that I am forbidden from carrying a weapon.”

Braig waited patiently for Ienzo to pass, his own back propping open the door and his expression neutral, slightly pleased, even. 

Ienzo could feel his lips thin and his eyes narrow as a sudden burst of anger propelled him fully through the door, and he started down a brief back staircase.

Braig strode calmly after, hands slipping into his pockets, as he trotted down the last few steps. “I’m aware.”

 _If Ansem or Even were to learn of it…_ Ienzo clutched tighter to the blade, eyes shutting, wondering which of his limited freedoms would be the first to dissipate.

“That’s the entire damn point, dumbass.” Braig rolled his eyes and gave the kid a shove in the back to keep him moving, out the servant’s staircase and toward the frontmost foyer. “Don’t rely on other people to protect you. They won’t. Let’s go.”

The remainder of their walk through echoing halls and cavernous parlors to reach the castle entrance passed in silence, and Braig refrained from touching him again. Ienzo was grateful for it, lost in thought, occasionally turning the parcel in his hands. It would undoubtedly be useful to have some way to defend himself should his magic prove inefficient, and yet the man before him was living proof of the dangers of reckless violence.

Ienzo hated himself for wanting to keep it, regardless.

“Best tuck that away,” Braig murmured, as they stepped into a side entry hall already bustling with nobles, just arriving, greeting the day with lazy conversation, and servants, receiving their coats and serving them tea, coffee, and sweet breads. A few called out birthday wishes to Ienzo, but at the sight of Braig, most opted to let the pair be.

Braig had a point, Ienzo knew. While the nobles and even the servants may not have been aware that Ienzo was forbidden from carrying a weapon, any guard posted at the castle entry the pair were rapidly approaching certainly would have been.     

“Of course, you could always tell them it’s a mantle decoration or a fucking letter opener,” Braig mocked when Ienzo made no move to follow his suggestion, “But I’m not sure even Aeleus’d buy that bullshit.”

Ienzo snorted in spite of himself and slipped the parcel into an inner pocket of his blazer, until he could make up his mind about what to do with it.

*     *

Their trip out of the castle and down the familiar paths to the Academy building was uneventful. When Braig and Ienzo came to the ivy-laced concrete fence and iron gates of Radiant Academy, Ienzo made to stalk off and Braig caught him by the sleeve.

When the older man leaned in to speak, it was directly into Ienzo’s ear, and Ienzo could see his rough, dark stubble and smell the black coffee and morning smoke on his breath.  

“Look, Enzo. Use it, don’t use it. I don’t give a shit. Just don’t toss it, alright?” He gave Ienzo’s arm a firm yank forward until they were chest to chest. “It wasn’t fucking free.”

Ienzo glared, his pupils dilating with fury. “I ought to use it on you,” he spat.

Ienzo watched as Braig drew a finger down the pistol at his side, the fingers clamping Ienzo’s arm digging deeper. “I could draw this faster than you could spit.”

“Get off.” Ienzo yanked back relentlessly, teeth gritted. A few classmates approached with raised eyebrows, but scampered past, taking in the uniform and the sheer muscle mass beneath it.

“Fucking ingrate.” Braig didn’t sound upset, but he hadn’t missed the stares of the passing students, and he released his grip on Ienzo’s arm, instead pressing a palm to his chest and shoving him into the wall.

Ienzo knocked his head lightly and his gritted teeth only just prevented him from gasping. He searched his mind for an escape. He wasn’t technically permitted to use magic outside of his training sessions, but then he also wasn’t permitted to own a weapon, and Braig certainly wasn’t permitted to do him harm.

Ienzo shook off the pain, hoping to stalk off, but the guard kept talking.

“I have another present, you know,” Braig rumbled, backing up another step, to observe his reaction, arms crossing, head tilting, “for Acacia.”

The teen in front of him went rigid, swallowing but not trusting himself to speak louder than a rasp. The back of his head pounded.

“Either one of you’s welcome to swing by my quarters for it when it strikes your fancy.”

Ienzo swallowed again, eyes wide, taking in Braig’s retreating form, the neat classy lines of his uniform a cruel mockery. He could only mouth the ancient words remembered from his lexicon. He hoped it would be enough.

“Of course, if I get impatient, I might just come to you. Not like I don’t know where you sleep. Pretty quiet down there, right?” Braig’s thin lips stretched into a sneer. The expression was rapidly dismissed and Braig sputtered, backed off a step. A pair of emerald green serpents slithered from the vines hanging from the academy walls and hit the ground with a thud. Their bodies scraped against the cobblestones, their breaths a soft hiss as they slunk past Ienzo and toward the guard.

“What the fuck…” Braig murmured, brown eyes darting back and forth, focused onto what Ienzo appeared to be thin air. Ienzo smiled.

One and then another of, the snakes’ mouths stretched, wide and gaping. Yellowing fangs hung gleaming, almost dripping, eyes an unnatural muddy brown that struck a familiar chord in Braig’s chest.

Ienzo readjusted the leather straps of his school bag, and ran fingers down the back of his head to check for blood.

When his fingers came away clean, Ienzo snapped them, and the serpents lunged.

Braig’s mouth fell open, as pain, real pain, struck his legs, but rather than scream or gape, hysterical laughter erupted. “That’s more like it, Enzo.” Braig shook his head at Ienzo’s small frame, casually retreating through the academy gates. Braig hit his knees. He forced himself to take a jagged breath to dispel the illusion of pain, before calling after him. “Happy fucking _Birthday_ , baby. Catch you later.”

Ienzo’s back muscles visibly tensed, but he kept walking.


	14. Interlude: Manhandling

“Happy Birthday, Ienzo.”

Calliope wondered why her friend’s smile stiffened at the greeting. Perhaps he didn’t want anyone to know and make a fuss, but she hadn’t exactly screamed it across the cafeteria. It wasn’t like she was Lea, son of Fletcher, or something.

As she rose her eyebrows, the stiffness slowly evaporated from the young man’s mouth and shoulders, leaving behind a half smile. “Why thank you, Calliope.”

Calliope nodded, smiled, and set down her plate, seating herself beside the small, studious noble at the small, otherwise unoccupied table on the outskirts of the crowded cafeteria. She didn’t always join him for lunch, but sometimes she enjoyed the quiet: calm, thoughtful, intelligent conversation could be a nice change.

“How will you celebrate?” She found herself sincerely curious about the habits of the reclusive young man. Together they had grown up attending carefully regimented playdates and study sessions with at the coercion of their fathers, and yet she knew little about him of any substance.  

“Well...” Ienzo seemed a bit put out that he hadn’t had time to change the subject. “This morning my fathers and I—”

The entire table jolted beneath them and the string beans on its occupants’ plates nosedived into their gravy boats of mashed potatoes.

Ienzo clutched at his chest with the hand not attempting to steady the surface, and Calliope merely scowled at something over Ienzo’s shoulders.

“Miss me?” a voice drawled, and Ienzo’s head whipped to the side to take in short, flaming red hair.

“Hello, Lea.” Calliope could feel the lack of enthusiasm in her greeting, but Lea didn’t seem concerned in the least. Ienzo echoed her greeting with less certainty.

“Calliope,” Lea greeted. “Nerd.” He raised a red eyebrow at the quiet kid with the long side bangs and patted his shoulder, resisting an urge to reach out and brush aside the strands. “You could have eaten with us, Calliope. Sitting by yourself is kind of sad.”

“Ienzo and I have been friends for years, and you won’t be calling him a nerd when he’s ordering you and the other guards about.”

“ _Okay_ …” Lea let the syllables drag, waiting for the rest of an explanation that wasn’t coming.

“I’m sitting with Ienzo.”

Lea sighed. “Alright. Whatever.”  Lea slid into an open seat, reaching for a buttered roll from Calliope’s plate. “So, Isa’s home puking his guts out.” He took a bite of the roll, crumbs falling from his mouth, and Ienzo gaped at his lack of table manners like he was discovering a new chemical reaction. 

Calliope made a noise of sympathy which Lea waved off, disinterested. “I told him not to eat the green ones. Anyway, you’re in his history class, right? Wanna let me copy down your notes to give the poor baby?”

“Lea, _you’re_ in his history class.”   
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Lea spread his palms across the spotless tablecloth, grimacing, “but my notes are absolute shit.” He rocked the surface a little bit, and Ienzo decided to lift his plate entirely. “C’mon, Calliope, help us out.”

After a bit more wheedling, Calliope agreed, for Isa’s sake, and Lea set to work, copying down her neat penmanship in his own sharp, rapid scrawl with surprising diligence.

“At least with Isa sick, I don’t have to worry about that crazy clocktower business the two of you had planned.”

“Hey! Don’t be so sure.” Lea’s quill stilled as he chuckled, shoulders squaring at the challenge. “I’m not afraid of a little solo mission.”

Ienzo set down his fork tentatively, voice bouncing, “Clock tower?”

Calliope eyed him warily. “Don’t encourage him.”

Lea nodded, a fire backlighting his eyes. “Going to break in and climb it—all the way to the top.”

“I have seen you try,” Ienzo replied carefully, setting down his plate to thread his fingers together. “You never quite make it… what with the patrolling guards.”

Lea glowered. “Well, it’ll be different this time! I won’t have Isa slowing me down.”  
  
Calliope snorted. Without Isa, she doubted Lea would even make it in the building.

“What, you plan to go tonight?” Ienzo asked, and Calliope contemplated the mounting alarm in his voice with curiosity and concern.

 “That’s the plan. Why,” Lea, stood, leaned across the table, using the extra year or so of height he had on the accelerated kid to loom over him, “gonna report me to your daddies? Because, if so, I can give you a _reason_ to cover up that eye.”

“ _Lea,_ ” Calliope objected, giving his shoulder a light smack, and glancing to Ienzo who nodded that he was alright.

“N-no,” Ienzo answered. “It’s only that, well, Braig is going to be on duty tonight.”

Lea’s brow furrowed, and he settled back into his seat to ponder this setback. “Well, at least he gets distracted easily.”

“He could severely injure you, or… or worse...And there would be no one to...I mean, you are not honestly still considering going…”

Lea shrugged, turning back to the notes he had abandoned, “Eh, probably not.”

Calliope and Ienzo frowned at each other, not particularly convinced.

*          *

“How was school, Ienzo?”

“Stimulating as always.” 

“Yes? Good. Well, what shall we do?”  
  
As was their tradition, Aeleus had taken the day off from Guard duty and set aside the better part of his afternoon to do whatever activity Ienzo deemed a fit celebration of another year of life. He stood outside the Academy gates, large white gloves crossed across his chest. The sun highlighted his russet hair and tanned his neck. Ienzo had to raise a hand to block the blinding rays and see his father.

“Actually, I wondered if, this year, I could ask you...um.” He faltered. He had been trying to figure out how to frame his potential solution without admitting to everything that had happened with Braig.  

“Yes?” Aeleus sounded curt and impatient, but the way his eyes didn’t break from Ienzo’s revealed a deeper concern.

Ienzo took a shaky breath. “I wish to ask you for a favor. And I must admit it may come off as a bit strange.” 

“What is it, Ienzo?”  
  
“I’d like to ask you, if you might take Braig’s shift for him this evening.”

“You two have plans of your own, do you?” Aeleus sounded skeptical, though Ienzo doubted he intended to. With Ienzo’s inability to fight and his sheltered upbringing, there had always been precious little for he and Braig to bond over.   

“No.”  
  
“Then why…?” 

“A friend of mine… Well, an acquaintance, really, I’m afraid he may do something rash in the square tonight, where Braig is patrolling. If you could take his station, or even, merely accompany him, it would greatly ease my anxiety.”   
  
Aeleus’ thick brows had a downward tilt, that made even his lightest expression of disapproval seem severe. “Wouldn’t be Lea and Isa, would it?”

Ienzo glanced to the cobblestone below and kicked a toe. “I’d rather not say.”

“Ienzo…” the condescension began to filter in and mingle with the distaste. “Braig is perfectly capable of handling those senseless twits.”

Ienzo tore his gaze from the ground and countered coldly, slowly, “I am afraid that Braig will handle him a little _too_ roughly, Dad.”  
  
“That is not the way of the Guard, Ienzo.”

“Oh, come now, I am no fool. I have seen him do it.”

The brows furrowed more deeply, and Aeleus’ lips pressed together.   
  
“I have seen him bloody the pair of them and send them off limping,” Ienzo reiterated with clinical certainty.  

“When?”  
  
“I don’t remember. I was likely about ten.”  
Aeleus shut his eyes, inhaling and exhaling through his nose before he processed aloud, “If Lea and Isa receive abusive treatment from a Guard, it is well within their rights to report it if they see fit. If they do not choose to exercise this right, there is nothing you or I can do.” Aeleus opened his eyes, chest tightening at the stormy intensity of his son’s glare. He half expected lightning to crackle behind him, and raised a glove in half surrender, “I am sorry, Ienzo. Unfortunately, a little manhandling is par for the course in this situation.”      

“Manhandling is precisely my concern,” the child bit off, more venomous than Aeleus had heard him in years.    
  
“Ienzo, I am afraid I don’t follow.”

Ienzo took a deep breath, eyes accusatory slits and grabbed Aeleus by the arm.

Aeleus allowed himself to be dragged away from the pack of students and around the side of the academy. 

There Ienzo halted them, but did not release his fingers from the thick, gritty fabric of Aeleus’ uniform sleeve. “You understand Braig’s reputation with young women.”

Aeleus sighed, the familiar weight of exasperation settling on his chest. “I am fairly well acquainted with it, yes.” 

_Was his friend a young woman? Was Ienzo in love?_ Aeleus stared intently, mentally floundering to grasp where Ienzo could possibly be going with this.

“What if I told you, it was not only with young _women._ ” 

Aeleus blinked rapidly, attempting to process this revelation. His tone became gentle, he touched Ienzo’s sleeve. “You cannot so lightly make such unfounded accusations of those you dislike, my dear son.”  
  
Ienzo yanked back, stalked away, turned his back on the man. He had been stupid to think he could do this, he could talk about this, help Lea, retain any pride while doing so.

“I assure you,” Ienzo continued. “I do not make them lightly or without foundation.”

Aeleus shook his head, still grasping for something just out of reach. “How the hell would you—”

Ienzo’s face split in a manic grin. “How the hell would I _know?_ ”

Aeleus backed up a step as if he had been struck in the face. “Oh, Ienzo, no.”

“Lea is going to try to break into the clocktower by himself sometime this evening. If you don’t make sure he’s not alone, I’ll do it myself.”

Aeleus could tell Ienzo was trying to sound brave, strong, but his voice and limbs shook. Aeleus clasped his arm, turned him around, disgusted, solemn. “You’ll do no such thing.”  
  
“So, you’ll help me, then?”

“I… Gods, Ienzo.” Enormous arms swallowed the small young man whole. “I’ll do everything that I can.”

*          *

That night, Lea got a bloody nose, lost two teeth, and bruised three ribs.

That night, Aeleus carried an unconscious young man to the hospital, cradled in his arms.

That night, Ienzo found a leather sheath for the knife on his pillowcase, on his bed, in his bedroom, which had, of course, been locked.

That night, Lieutenant Braig ran and the Guard did not catch him.

*          *

The next morning, Lea awoke fresh as a daisy, everything intact. When the nurse did not demand munny before he left, he said nothing, assuming it was a happy accident.

The next morning, Braig was dismissed from the Royal Guard, and a warrant was issued for his arrest.

The next morning, Aeleus delivered the news to his son, still in bed, though it was mid-morning, on a school day. Aeleus waited for some kind of explanation, and Ienzo said nothing at all.

The next morning felt like Acacia’s birthday.


	15. Audacity

The front row of onlookers can practically smell the singe as the Dean of Radiant Academy’s blood reaches a high boil, as Ansem makes his exit, abandoning the hopeful graduates crowding the pleasant castle gardens to their new fate. Were he to steam and seep crimson fumes out of his mouth and nose like a great, finely dressed, muscular dragon, there would have been few, if any startled faces.

 _Lucky for the Captain that the Dean’s not a dragon, really,_ Lea reflects from the state of emotional numbness that the potion has dragged him down into, because the Dean gives the king’s stand-in a searing glower as if he would like to drag claw marks through the dark metal sheen of her armor.

“The Captain of the Guard will make note of what is said and report to his majesty the _true_ sentiment of his people,” the Dean booms, and he is perhaps the only remaining fortification standing between the crowd and mass chaos.  

It is not a question, but the Captain nods stoically, regardless. No expression crosses her face to tip Lea off as to whether she was aware of Ansem’s decision in advance, whether the entire Guard was. Aeleus hadn’t sounded it, nor had Dilan, though perhaps this had in fact, been the true source of their leniency toward Isa and Lea. Didn’t matter if they were breaking the rules if they already hadn’t made the cut. Particularly if no one else had either. But they were Lea’s friends, weren’t they?

“Will any of the graduating classes’ representatives speak to Ansem’s decision?” The Dean casts his gaze to Calliope, and she falters a half step back under the weight of it. Catching her arm, Isa can feel the tremors rising from beneath skin as cool as the Dean’s is boiling.

“Go on, then.” Isa slides the hand up to her shoulder, gives a gentle but insistent push. He knows, even as he does, that she will never take this stand. That he does not have the right to ask her to. The iron gates of her family’s extravagant manor shut in his mind’s eye with a deafening clang. He tries to draw up images of her impeccably dressed, aristocratic parents, but she never has gotten around to introducing them. Resentment he has never realized rested in his bones crawls up his throat. “If you are our friend, you will speak for us now.”

Her dark eyes glimmer at the corners, the unexpected—unprecedented—ultimatum clogging her throat like smoke inhalation. Calliope raises her glove and grips his hand, yanking it from her capelet and staggering back.

“I cannot stand against Ansem,” she hisses furiously. “My father is in his employ. We stand to lose _everything_ without his favor.”

“And I,” Isa hisses back, helping Lea onto the arm of another of their friend’s, rather than Calliope’s, (and Lea’s so far gone he doesn’t even object,) “I have nothing to lose. Is that it?”

Isa doesn’t wait for her defense, though he’s sure it will be teary and heartfelt. Dean Petrichor has shifted his attention to the mangled looking, blue-haired VP starting toward him, pausing, turning back to find dim green eyes, medically robbed of their due fury.   

“Forgive me,” Isa says hoarsely, as he breaches the first of the palace steps.  

“Sure thing,” Lea mumbles back, leaning into the shoulder of he can’t remember who, as his eyes sink shut.

*       *

The sleeves of Isa’s blazer hang onto its torso by threads and sheer luck. His once white button down has burnt in some places and torn in others. All manner of dirt and ash cover every scrap of skin and fabric, and sweat cools along his neck on the breath of a morning breeze.

The disaster of him is made all the more striking in contrast to his usual appearance. Isa’s not one to enter the public gaze with a boot unpolished or a shirttail untucked.    

It’s impossible to look away from and yet, rather than draw pity, serves to accentuate the power and fury of each confident stride as he ascends the palace steps.

Isa’s rebellion does not quite become real until he reaches the precipice of the landing. The crowd begins to swarm then, some, like Calliope making their way back, toward their families, toward the city.

“Radiant Garden.” The dean stills them with his voice, beckoning Isa forward, hands spreading open. “Your Majesty.” He nods to the Captain of the Guard, reminding her, the crowd, of her role. “Our senior vice president, Isa the Azure.”

Isa takes his position center stage, surveying the masses and feeling his heartbeat hasten. “As you can probably tell,” he says, “I’ve had a busy morning.”

The laughter is startled, but immediate.

Isa’s hands sweep out. “And still I stand before you, to say what needs to be said, aware that in doing so,” his eyes rise to the stone parapets, striated green and pink with distant vines and blossoms, “I may well be surrendering my claim to any future castle positions.” His gaze retreats back to his classmates, to Lea, seeming to stand straighter in an effort to hear him out.

“Because I am _exhausted_ ,” Isa drags out the word, makes it bear his pain, “and I cannot hold my tongue.”

Lea can feel the tide of the crowd around him go still as the words resonate, eyes rising up to the man that gives voice to their recent betrayal.  

“The other day,” Isa begins almost conversationally, “my lover—”

A collective breath is taken, heavy with realization. The cries go up, sharp but indistinct. The Captain and Dean, in turn, appear to consider hauling Isa bodily from the podium.

Isa’s voice rises above the din, immune to it, to everything, at this point in his day. “I asked my lover of almost ten years, what I should do if I, the most promising scientific candidate in my year, were to be denied an apprenticeship. My lover, being in a _kind_ mood, told me any scientific facility in the kingdom would be so lucky as to have me.

“And I realized that my lover didn’t _know_. Didn’t know that there _are_ no other scientific research facilities in the entirety of the kingdom. So today, as Ansem spoke, I said to myself…”

Isa’s pause borders on comedic, one eyebrow quirked, glancing over his shoulder and back conspiratorially.

“Does _he_ not know?

“As he speaks of us aiding his kingdom, does _he_ not realize there is nowhere for his scientists to go _to do so_?”

Isa begins to pace, hands raising, shruglike. “Shall we build these places? We with no salaries, no money to pay for rent or groceries or, my younger sister’s hospital bills… Shall we?

“Does he _not know_ the table scraps paid to the People’s Guard? A band of ragtag, vigilante volunteers, whose day jobs support them wholly, and whose weapons shed rust and splinter their palms?

“Ansem who has an entire court of noble advisors in every field. _Did no one tell him?_

“Never before have I questioned why we call him Ansem _the Wise_.”

The deafening roar of the crowd fills in the space of Isa’s pause, dropping off again as he folds his hands behind his back, eyes once again drifting to the castle parapet.  

“I have a story, I would have him hear, had he the audacity to listen.

“There once were two young boys, not starving but terribly skinny, not homeless but rarely under the gaze of a watchful eye. Their clothes were ragged and their smiles wild. Their limbs painted yellow and purple by their games, and sometimes the crueler games of adults and older children. They found each other as children so often do, and clung tightly.

“One of the children had but one ambition in his small, precious life, and this was to climb to the very, very top balcony of a very, very tall clock tower, so that he might sit and stare out at the majesty of the kingdom and feel for once that the world was at his fingertips and he was not so very, very small.

“The other child, being more practical, had no such ambitions. But he was fiercely loyal and saw how deeply his companion desired the view, and so, swore himself to aid his friend in accomplishing his lofty goal.

“Now the clocktower, being property of the kingdom and no place for children to play, was under the protection of the castle guards who patrolled the square.

“Each time the boys hatched a plot to climb the tower, the Guard found them out and gave chase. As the boys grew older their schemes grew cleverer, and they made their way further and further up the tower, toward the light and the view. And each time they were dragged down, down the winding stone staircases, their knees scraping and their faces meeting dirt and mud.

“Time wore on. The boys became men, and they never did make it to the top of the clocktower. But they kept climbing. They received scholarships, an education. The academy became their tower, discipline their stairs, the apprenticeships their sky.

“I will never forget the day I first started at the academy. When my father first saw me in this blue uniform blazer, well,” Isa draws at the ruined fabric with a hand and glares at it, “a nicer one, I suppose. I have never seen him more…” He releases the fabric and glances up and to the side as if he can still see him, creased forehead smoothing, “disappointed.”

“‘You’d be better off becoming a fisherman as I have,’ he’d told me. ‘Because they will _never_ make an apprentice out a nothing like you.’    

Isa exhales, considering the sky above him, and for a long moment it seems he has said all he has to say.

“I suppose,” he continues at length, chuckles humorlessly, “I thought I could prove him wrong.” His eyes seek out Lea again, but his vision blurs and the crowd is a smudge in the gardens below. “But it would seem little has changed since I was a little boy convincing my best friend to scale a clocktower. The more steps we climb, the further down we are dragged.” Isa snatches at the air, pulls it down, releases it.

“But I have no regrets,” Isa turns toward the castle doors, toward Ansem, voice amplifying, “I will not apologize for all the grueling hours of hard work I put into getting this far.” Isa turns back to his classmates, the people, and drops down the first broad, stone step, “Because Ansem was right about one thing, and that was that we are the goddamn best there is or ever has been.” He continues down the steps, voice rising, fists clenching, “And we will keep fighting. We will keep climbing. The clocktower will strike and our time will come.” Isa halts his descent when he can pick out Lea amidst the others. He wishes he could read his features, but he’s certain Lea is proud, and that will have to be enough.   

“We will claw up those stone steps, fingernails black and dirty, until the sunlight hits our faces and the kingdom sprawls golden beneath our feet.”

*      *

With Braig pacing beside him, Ienzo’s scientific inclinations begin to slip in the lightless reaches of the castle corridors, far above the churning, rumbling crowd at Isa’s feet. Imaginary Shadows scuttle in the corners of his eyes, in places where the window slits don’t reach. The merrily flickering torches in their sconces have died prematurely, as if intentionally snuffed, disturbing the familiarity of even the most frequently traveled hallways.

Braig’s golden eye catches even the slightest movements of the pleasant, thoughtless stable boy Ienzo’s made himself into as he stretches to readjust his stetson or tug at unfamiliar fabric.  

The hasty clicks of their heels against the unforgiving stone passages offer the only interruption to the heavy silence, and Ienzo finds himself beginning to suspect he and Braig the only survivors of an invisible and soundless plague. The notion sets his teeth on edge, trailing electric prickles up his spine like fingertips, like the first and only day he dabbled with dark magic.

Ienzo can’t help but believe Braig would welcome such a situation.

As they pass yet another unattended Guard’s post, his pounding heart ever nearing his throat, Ienzo has no choice but to circle them back toward the high-ceilinged atrium in which they had first run into each other. He holds no delusions that Braig will not realize—has not _already_ realized—the route Ienzo has taken him, past Guard post after Guard post. Ienzo clings to the pretense, however, dreading the reason Braig has yet to draw attention to Ienzo’s efforts to have him arrested.  

“Hey, cowboy…” At last Braig’s boot clicks settle and cease as they reach the center of the chamber, and he peruses the familiar banners and the wide mouth at the base of the stone staircase with its curling banister, chiseled with a thick pattern of vines. “Would you look at that? We’re right back where we started.”

Braig turns to ensure he has Ienzo’s full attention, as if he hasn’t the entire way. His head cocks, lip curling, each word drawn out, toying, an inside joke, “That’s, what, five Guards away from their posts now? Six?”

Ienzo sets his hand on the stone banister, running his gaze along the thinning carpeting where the Guard so often rested their boots, scanning the post and the steps for signs of struggle. He takes his time, this time, no longer wary of Braig striking him down. He has had ample opportunity already, and clearly holds other intentions.

Nothing seems to be amiss, which makes Ienzo’s stomach tighten. “I don’t understand…” he breathes to himself, brow furrowing, gaze lifting to Braig, who has drawn up beside him, and rests a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Should we check on another few,” the man asks, leering, grip tightening, “or are you going to wise up and take me to Xehanort before I lose my temper?”

“Where are they all?” Ienzo mumbles, his eyes locking with Braig’s iris, an unnerving shade, molten gold, and again the corner of Braig’s mouth tugs up in amusement. Ienzo had been so sure only fifteen minutes ago, when he set out with the other man, that he had the situation well in hand, and now he does not even bother to pry at the grip on his shoulder, not before he absolutely has to.

“Lot going on this morning. Haven’t ya heard?” Braig swishes his free hand conversationally. “Apprenticeships being posted. Monsters attacking the crowd. Future guards coming out of the closet. I’m sure the palace Guard is just preoccupied.”

The wild events flicker through Ienzo’s mind’s eye only half processed.

“All of them?” Ienzo laughs, a hysterical little hiccup of a thing, his eyes climbing the walls, still searching for some kind of explanation. “That’s quite impossible. And how could _you_ have known, unless you, yourself…” He shuts up quite abruptly then.

Braig’s smile could make a child cry. “Sorry to disappoint. I know you were hoping they would disarm and arrest me for you, Ienzo, but like I’ve always said: it’s every man for himself.”

Braig’s hand eases as Ienzo goes rigid at the sound of his own name, the illusion shifting away in a shimmer of white light. He had thought he had at least his identity to protect him. How is it that Braig can see past his illusions when even his fathers, people who give an actual damn about him, cannot?

Ienzo’s shrunk multiple inches, increasing Braig’s advantage, and the hand slides up his shoulder, pausing at the juncture just below his throat. Braig’s index finger smooths over the ridge of Ienzo’s clavicle, so, so gently, Ienzo can almost pretend it hasn’t happened.

Braig leans in and whispers, and Ienzo forces himself not to squeeze his eyes shut as hot breath hits the back of his neck. “So, tell me, have you learned to protect yourself?”

In one fluid, hostile motion, Ienzo wrenches himself away and backs off several paces. He summons his magic, weaker, without his lexicon, but still visible, harsh yellow and gold rays enveloping unclenching fists.  “You tell me,” he seethes.

“Oh,” Braig quirks up an eyebrow, crosses his arms as if to observe his display, like one might observe a cute piece of art, drawn by a cute niece, with a stick, in the dirt, “are we doing this here?”  

“Were you hoping for something a little more private?” Ienzo challenges, and it’s his own voice that rings in his ears, thinner than the fake one, but it does not waver.

Braig’s smiles, sheepish, and shrugs. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. Speaking of,” Braig’s arrowgun appears in hand and he tosses it up, catches it, “you want tied up, or are you ready to submit?”

The light at Ienzo’s fingertips pulses dangerously bright for a moment. “I would rather die.”

Braig blinks away spots with a tiny smile. “Well, _that’s_ a bit dramatic.” He waves his free hand dismissively. “We’re on the same team, here, kid. You,” he gestures with the gun, radiating maroon light as he grows testier, his jaw tighter, “me, your dear, old dads.” The gun stops, training in on Ienzo again. “So, either take me to Xehanort, or kindly step off, before I turn every version of you into a pin cushion.”

Ienzo mutters a few words, and the light around him shifts, spreading, brightening. He can feel the magic roiling from Braig in sharp, heady waves, stronger than it ever used to be. He knows then that his isn’t enough. Not by himself, not without his lexicon.

He can only hope it will hold Braig off for a while, at the very least, and give the Guard time to regroup.

“You and I will never be on the same team.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thanks to zackstrife for her help with this one :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so so much for reading <3 Your kudos, thoughts, questions, and feedback are appreciated more than you know! You can subscribe to see when I update! <3


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